Chapter 3

After leaving the clinic, I went to a high-end shopping mall, wanting to buy some baby clothes.

Maybe I was trying to find some tangible connection to the tiny life growing inside me.

But right at the entrance of a luxury boutique, I ran straight into Ethan.

He was holding a beautifully wrapped shopping bag. It wasn't baby stuff—it was from a luxury professional audio brand.

He froze when he saw me.

"Chloe? What are you doing here?"

His eyes immediately fell on the medical envelope in my hand.

I instinctively tried to hide it behind my back, but I was too late.

"Are you sick?" He frowned, stepping closer.

Looking at him, a wave of sheer exhaustion washed over me.

"I'm pregnant, Ethan."

His expression instantly petrified. He stared at me as if I were speaking a foreign language.

"Seven weeks," I added.

His jaw tightened, his throat bobbing as his eyes filled with confusion and panic.

"Why... why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"Did you ever have time to listen?" I looked down at the luxury bag in his hand.

"How is Cleo's tour going? Is it smooth?"

His face paled slightly, and he fell silent for a moment. "Chloe, it's not what you think. Cleo and I are just..."

"Just what?" I cut him off.

"Just old friends? Just business partners?"

"Ethan, you write music for her, you play guitar for her on stage, you run to her studio at three in the morning, and now you’re following her entire tour."

"Are all of these things 'just' nothing to you?"

I had never spoken to him in such a sharp, confrontational tone before.

He stared at me, a strange, defensive look in his eyes.

"Let's go home first." He reached out to grab my hand.

I took a step back, dodging his touch.

"Go home? Ethan, has there ever been a home for us, or has the shadow of a third person always lived with us?"

I stared at the brand logo on his shopping bag. That specific audio brand was Cleo's absolute favorite.

He remembered every single detail of her preferences, yet he didn't even notice his own wife's deteriorating health.

"Ethan," I took a deep breath, suddenly feeling a sharp, dull pull in my lower abdomen.

"If Cleo and I both needed you at the exact same time today... who would you choose?"

The moment the question left my mouth, I regretted it.

The answer was already glaringly obvious.

He knitted his brows, a trace of impatience flickering in his eyes.

"Chloe, stop being dramatic. You know how important this tour is for Cleo's career. She can't afford any more setbacks."

Cleo.

He said her name so naturally, so protectively.

My entire body began to shake with anger, and the pulling pain in my abdomen grew sharper, dragging me down.

I stared at him, forcing out every single word. "So, your choice is her. Correct?"

He didn't answer.

Suddenly, I felt a warm, wet sensation trickling down my inner thigh.

I looked down. On my light-colored linen pants, a bright, horrific patch of crimson was quickly blooming.

When I finally regained consciousness, the sharp smell of antiseptic filled my nose.

I stared up at the sterile white ceiling of the hospital room, an IV drip hooked to the back of my hand.

A hollow, aching pain radiated from my abdomen.

Turning my head, I saw Ethan sitting on the chair beside the bed. His head was buried in his hands, his posture slumped and defeated.

His designer suit was wrinkled and messy—the same one he wore at the mall.

Hearing me move, he raised his head instantly.

His eyes were bloodshot, and dark stubble covered his jaw. I had never seen him look so incredibly wrecked.

"Chloe..." His voice was extremely hoarse and trembling.

"How do you feel?"

I didn't say a word. I just stared at him with empty, hollow eyes.

I didn't need to ask. I already knew.

The doctor walked in for rounds. "Ah, you're awake."

"The miscarriage was caused by a combination of severe emotional stress and your weakened physical state."

"And... because of the trauma to your uterus this time, it might be very difficult for you to conceive naturally in the future."

I lowered my gaze, staring blankly at the white hospital blanket.

Ethan’s face drained of what little color it had left. His hands clenched into tight fists, his knuckles turning white.

The doctor gave a few more standard post-miscarriage instructions and quietly left the room.

Silence fell over us again, heavy and suffocating like thick mud.

"The baby is gone," I said. My voice was so calm it surprised even myself.

Ethan stood up abruptly, stepping closer to the bed. He reached out to touch me, but his hand hovered in the air, trembling.

"I'm so sorry, Chloe. I shouldn't have argued with you. It’s my fault. I didn't know you were..."

"If you knew, would you have skipped going to the mall to buy Cleo her equipment?" I interrupted him, my voice flat.

"If you knew, would you have asked me why I was throwing up every morning? Would you have held my hand during my check-ups instead of leaving me alone in the clinic?"

He stood there, completely speechless, his face twisted in deep regret and agony.

But I couldn't tell how much of his pain was for the baby we lost, and how much of it was just guilt for having to face me.

"Please rest here for a few days, and then I'll take you home, okay?" he pleaded, his voice cracking.

"From now on... we will make things right. I promise."

"Make things right?" I repeated the words, finding them incredibly laughable.

"Ethan, how do we make things right? Do we just pretend nothing happened?"

"Should I keep watching you run to her whenever she calls? Should I ignore the music sheets in your study? Should I just smile when you spend our wedding anniversary celebrating her success?"

I swallowed the lump in my throat, looking straight into his eyes.

"Maybe this baby made the choice for us."

"It knew this home didn't want it. It knew its father's heart belonged to another woman and another life."

"Let's get a divorce."