My Ex Stole Our Son's Bone Marrow

Emelia and David made their way back to their room upstairs. The second the door clicked shut, David casually peeled off his shirt, grabbed his pajamas from the closet, and headed for the bathroom without so much as a glance in her direction.

"So, my dad's situation is pretty messy, right? Thanks for even considering it," Emelia spoke up, her tone a little awkward.

David tilted his head slightly, his voice flat. "You're thanking me too soon. I haven't promised your mother anything yet."

Emelia blinked, caught off guard. "Oh... right."

She nodded, almost relieved. "That makes sense, I guess. Since we're heading toward divorce, if you decide not to help, I totally get it."

David didn't respond. He just stepped into the bathroom and shut the door.

Emelia sank into the chair at her vanity and started taking off her makeup. A flicker of relief passed through her—at least David hadn't committed to anything. That meant she wouldn't owe him, and she could push for the divorce without guilt hanging over her head. But the weight of her father's problems pressed down on her chest, heavy and unrelenting.

Under the spray of the shower, David's mind churned over her father's botched investment. It wasn't an impossible fix, but it was serious enough to demand attention. Jasmine had been adamant: track down the people responsible and claw back the lost money, rather than swallowing the loss like fools.

He hadn't said no. But he hadn't said yes either. In the past, he would've agreed on the spot—unable to stand by while his wife worried herself sick. But now... he wanted to see where Emelia stood before he made any move.

Back in the bedroom, Emelia finished her skincare routine and was about to climb into bed when her phone buzzed. A message from her mother, Jasmine: Come meet me in the kitchen. She sighed, pushed herself up, and padded downstairs.

In the kitchen, Jasmine stood by the island, lost in thought, her fingers tracing the rim of a bowl absentmindedly.

"Mom?" Emelia called softly as she approached.

Jasmine snapped out of her daze, fixing her daughter with a sharp, probing stare. After a beat, she demanded, "What's going on between you and David?"

"Huh?" Emelia hadn't braced for that question, and a jolt of panic shot through her. "N-Nothing. Nothing's wrong."

Jasmine knew her daughter like the back of her hand. The way Emelia faltered was all the confirmation she needed. She crossed her arms, her brows knitting together. "Something happened between you two. Is there someone else involved?"

Emelia hesitated. She was tempted to spill the story about her fake affair, but her mother would march straight to Ryatt and make a scene, dragging him into the mess. So she swallowed it.

"No. We just had a fight. It's nothing serious."

Jasmine let out a scornful laugh. "That's ridiculous! If it was just some silly spat, David wouldn't leave your father hanging like this!"

Emelia looked away, unable to meet her mother's piercing gaze. She stared at the pot of stew simmering on the stove instead.

"Are you two planning a divorce?" Jasmine asked, the question sharp as a blade.

Emelia's heart stopped. Her mother's intuition was unsettling. Just from David's attitude, Jasmine had already sniffed out the truth about their impending divorce. Was there anything that escaped that woman?

Seeing no point in hiding it any longer, Emelia decided to come clean.

She squared her shoulders, lifting her chin. "I want a divorce." Her voice trembled but held firm. "He's emotionally distant. He doesn't care about me the way a husband should. This isn't the marriage I signed up for."

The words barely left her mouth before a sharp crack echoed through the kitchen—Jasmine's palm connected with her cheek.

Emelia stumbled back, the sting searing across her face. Her hand flew to her cheek, her eyes wide with shock.

"Mom... you slapped me?" Her voice cracked, tears already welling up.

Jasmine's face twisted with fury. "Divorce? Do you have any idea how many women in this town would kill to be in your shoes? You're not getting any younger, and here you are, chasing fairy tales! So what if he's interested in someone else? You're Mrs. Richards—that title alone should be enough! It comes with doors opening left and right, protection for your family. Who else but your husband can dig us out of this mess? Are you really willing to burn our family down over some fleeting fantasy of love?"

"I'm a human being with emotional needs!" Emelia choked out, tears streaming down her face. "Why should I live like this—neglected, invisible? Don't I deserve better than this?"

"David is the best thing that ever happened to you!" Jasmine shot back. "Emelia, you should count your lucky stars the Richards picked you for this alliance. Don't you dare be ungrateful and stupid!"

"Mom!" Emelia's voice rose, raw and bitter. "Why do you always treat me like this? You never—never—care about how I feel. All you see is a failure. Am I even your real daughter?"

Jasmine waved off her daughter's outburst with a roll of her eyes. She shoved the pot toward Emelia. "Take this stew to your husband later. As his wife, you should be trying to please him. That'll put him in a better mood to help your father." Her voice dropped to an icy warning. "And don't you dare bring up divorce again. If you do, don't expect me to acknowledge you as my daughter."

The words sliced through Emelia like glass. Without a second thought, she shoved the pot off the counter. It crashed to the floor with a deafening clatter, stew splattering everywhere. Then she turned and stormed out of the kitchen.

She rushed back upstairs, her heart pounding. When she entered the room, David had just stepped out of the shower, standing by the floor-to-ceiling window with his phone pressed to his ear. He glanced at her as she darted past him.

Emelia kept her head down and disappeared into the bathroom. The second the door clicked shut, the dam broke. She turned on the water, letting the hot spray mingle with her tears as a sob tore from her chest. All the hurt and frustration—her mother's cruelty, her crumbling marriage, the exhaustion of keeping up appearances—came pouring out.

After what felt like an eternity, she pulled herself together. She dried off and forced herself to look in the mirror. Her eyes were red and puffy, and the red mark of her mother's hand was blooming across her cheek. She hesitated, then took a deep breath and stepped out.

She crossed to the wardrobe, reaching for her pajamas. Suddenly, a hand closed on her shoulder, spinning her around.

David's fingers brushed under her chin, tilting her face toward the light. His voice was low, cold, but underneath it there was something softer. "Your mother did this?"

Emelia's face flushed with embarrassment. She knocked his hand away, turning aside. "I'm fine."

"Why did she hit you?" he pressed, a hint of anger creeping into his tone.

She sniffled, forcing a bitter smile. "That's just how she is. She hits first, asks questions never."

"Was it because I didn't promise her anything? Did she take it out on you?" David's grip on her shoulders tightened.

In the brief scuffle, her towel slipped loose and dropped to the floor, leaving her completely bare.

They both froze, staring down at the crumpled towel.

With a frustrated sigh, Emelia muttered, "Pick it up for me, please."

David almost laughed at the absurdity of the moment. A low chuckle escaped his lips as he bent down to grab the towel. "Sorry—that wasn't intentional," he murmured, moving to wrap it around her.

She snatched it from his hands, turning away sharply. "Stop laughing. You think this is funny?"

His gaze drifted to the pale, soft skin of her back. Something stirred in him—a mix of desire and protectiveness. But the memory of Jasmine's cruelty quickly sobered him, replacing any amusement with a knot of worry for the woman standing in front of him.