A Vow on Shattered Stone

Grant had always despised Asher, finding his allergies "troublesome" and "imperfect." As if being diagnosed with a severe allergy at such a young age was his fault.

But the reason for Asher's fragile constitution was Grant himself—and in part, me, for having once been so blinded by love.

I still remembered being an intern architect at his company when the young CEO booked the entire top-floor conference room, decorating it with blue and silver balloons. It was a grand proposal for his college sweetheart, Scarlett.

But a single voicemail from her shattered that romantic fantasy into a spectacle of public humiliation.

"I'm sorry, Grant. I've found my true love, a banker. Thanks for everything. You'll always be my best friend."

Grant's world collapsed. In a fit of rage, he was about to smash the architectural model that had taken us months of painstaking work to build.

That was when I stepped forward.

"Sir, if you don't mind, may I finish this project?" I asked, a young apprentice with eyes only for design.

He looked at me, surprised. In that moment, I saw a flicker of something rebuilding in his shattered gaze.

I ignored the stares from others, sat down, and began to work, while he watched me complete the final rendering.

Only then did he ask, "What's your name?"

"Avalon," I said.

That was how we met. We were married soon after. He gave me countless opportunities, putting me on his most important projects.

Even when I was pregnant and on doctor-ordered bed rest, he’d bring home blueprints, expecting me to work through the night.

I had always thought it was a sign of his confidence in me, proof of his love.

I didn't realize the truth until Scarlett returned to the country, newly divorced. The praise, the projects—they were never about building me up.

They were to impress Scarlett, who only liked powerful and successful men.

He needed a perfect business empire to win her back.

And I was just a placeholder, a convenient tool to manage his life until his true love returned.

Every "I love you" Grant had ever whispered felt like a counterfeit coin. The late nights and stress during my third trimester had not only drained my health but had also contributed to Asher's allergies. It wasn't trust; it was the slow, chronic murder of my son.

I stroked Asher's hair one last time before turning away.

After handling the hospital paperwork, I rushed home to prepare for Asher's funeral, my mind a dizzying reel of the last seven years.

When I arrived, Grant was by the pool with Scarlett and Cody, sipping cocktails.

Scarlett wore a bikini, and Cody sat between them. Grant was applying sunscreen to Cody's back—a picture-perfect family portrait where the wife and child had been swapped out. The sight burned.

I ignored them, walking past the patio. But my steps froze as Grant's voice cut through the air behind me.

"So, how's the kid?"

After abandoning his own son for an entire night, he finally asked.

My hands clenched into fists, my eyes burning with rage. I whirled around. "How do you think he is, Grant, after you left him to die?"

"Don't be so dramatic, Avalon. Just tell me how he is." He frowned, a hint of impatience in his voice. "You think you're the only one who cares about him? I'm his father, too."

"You care?" I sneered, advancing on him. "If you gave a damn, you wouldn't be here sipping cocktails while our son was taking his last breath."

Grant froze. The glass in his hand wavered. His face turned pale as he stared at me in disbelief. "What… what did you say?"

I didn't cry. My tears had run dry. I calmly announced, "My son, Asher… he's gone, Grant. He's dead."