His Death Is Not My Fault

One day, shortly after I had experienced a miscarriage, Alan brought me a bowl of chicken soup—and a divorce agreement.

"Sophia's pregnant," he had said. "So let's just leave each other like mature adults do."

Chicken soup had never tasted so bitter in my life. I knew Sophia Mason—he had sponsored her education before.

She was also the one who caused my miscarriage.

I did not cry. I did not throw a fit. I just asked why.

He looked relieved. Then, he looked at me blankly. "The truth is I can't stand you over these seven years. Every time we lie together on our bed, I just can't help but be disgusted by what your body has gone through.

"I know you suffered that because of me. But I can't do it. I can't stop remembering how defiled it is.

"Our kid is gone. We owe each other nothing now—so let's end it here, right now."

So that was it, huh? Hilarious. He had no idea who the "defiled" one was—him.

Seven years ago, I inserted a memory chip into his brain to save him. And now, in three days' time, the chip will cease to function.

He will remember everything… and he will wish he were long dead.

Alan took my silence as an invitation to begin divorce negotiations.

"Don't worry about financial compensation. I won't let you leave empty-handed," he said. "I'll give you a car, the house, and half the money from our joint venture. You won't have to work for the rest of your life."

Oh, he planned to push me out of the company we built together.

A lump rose in my throat. I set the agreement aside. "I… I need time to think."

He frowned.

"Selena, please. Unlike you, Sophia hasn't been with anyone but me. That makes me responsible for her life. I'm her only one," he insisted. "Don't make this harder than it needs to be. I'd hate to see you as an enemy over this."

It was a threat.

I remembered our early days, when we had just started the business. A prospective client once tried to strong-arm me into reshaping a deal for his benefit. Alan smashed a beer bottle against the table the moment the man leaned in and lowered his voice.

This time, the figurative bottle was aimed at me.

"Don't worry. I'll sign it," I said. I did not tell him I meant something else. "At least have a meal with me the day after tomorrow, okay? It's our tenth wedding anniversary."

Alan looked startled. Then he sighed. "Why? There's no point."

He thought I was clinging to him.

"Look, I can't. I promised Sophia I'd take her to the OB-GYN for her checkup that day. But if that's what it takes for you to sign, I'll make time."

As if on cue, Sophia Mason called.

"Alan, my tummy feels funny. I think the baby misses their papa…" she cooed.

What baby? It was only two months along, barely formed.

Yet Alan's face softened at once. He spoke to her with open tenderness.

"Oh no, that won't do! I'll have a stern talk with them right away!" he joked.

He was ready to leave. He paused at the door and said, "Truth be told, Selena, she's the home I've always wanted."

He had said that before. He had said it to his family when he cut ties with them for rejecting me. He had grown up in comfort and luxury, yet for me, he had been willing to live in a rundown rented room.

"You're the home I want, Selena."

Now, I was the hell that had trapped him for years.

…

The soup had gone cold. I threw it, bowl and all, into the trash. Then I made two calls.

First, to my lawyer. I needed to secure my share of the company.

Second, to a moving company. I wanted every trace of Alan removed from the house.

He did not come home that night. Instead, Sophia sent me a photo. Alan stood topless, warming a cup of milk. A smear of lipstick marked his chest.

[Get a grip, darling. Your baby's gone. There's nothing tying you to him now, so how long will you keep simping for a man who doesn't want you? Look at him. He only shows his wild side with me. I'm the only one who can bring out that beast in him.]

[You? You forced a starving man to fast. Tsk. He was so deprived… he took me even after he knew I was pregnant.]

Once, messages like these would have sent me into a frenzy. I would have thrown out every sanitizer and antibacterial spray. I would have shredded his long-sleeved pajamas. I would have screamed at him, demanded to know why he treated me like I carried a disease. I would have asked myself why I chose this torment all those years ago.

I no longer asked. I took a screenshot and turned off my phone.

I knew my worth. Nebula Inc. had recently reached a valuation in the billions under our leadership. Our shared assets alone were worth at least two billion dollars. Among moguls and tycoons, our standing rivaled that of royalty.

I already had money and power.