She Was Never the Real Reason

It was a prenatal report—and the patient’s name was Beverly.

The listed conception date made my head spin.

Three weeks pregnant.

Which meant Dominic and Beverly had undergone IVF over a month ago.

He’d never planned to discuss this with me—never intended to ask for my consent.

So why had he hounded me about it daily? To absolve his guilt? What did I even mean to him?

My legs buckled, and I sank to the floor.

I felt my heart clenched, strangling every breath.

No wonder Dominic had rushed out earlier, grinning like a fool after that call.

He’d known. They did a good job. Beverly was pregnant.

He was probably at the hospital with her now, clinking champagne glasses over their twisted “miracle.”

I pressed my palms against my eyelids, but the image of that report burned brighter.

How could the man I’d loved for decades become another woman’s child’s father?

Two months ago, he’d tearfully accepted my proposal. I’d booked the cathedral and chosen a lace gown for our wedding.

I’d imagined his hands steadying mine as we cut the cake. Now those fantasies popped like soap bubbles, leaving only acid in my throat.

My phone buzzed, jolting me back. I answered mechanically.

“Jane!” Emily’s voice crackled with excitement. “I know it’s last-minute, but Dr. Evans begged me to ask again—will you join the Chrysalis Lab? You’d revolutionize his research!”

Six months ago, Dr. Evans had personally offered me the role. The catch? Total isolation—no calls, no emails, no contact for months or even years.

Back then, I’d refused. The thought of losing Dominic terrified me more than missing a Nobel-worthy breakthrough.

“He’s willing to compromise!” Emily rushed on. “Two months in the lab, two weeks off. You’d still have time for Dominic—”

Dominic.

The name now tasted like rust. My eyes drifted to the desk calendar.

October 10th—once circled in glittery pink—now glared back in harsh red Sharpie.

Fifteen days until my wedding.

Fifteen days until freedom.

“I’ll join,” I cut in, voice steadier than I felt. “No compromises. Full protocol.”

“But your honeymoon—”

“Schedule me for the 10th.”

Silence. Then a soft click as Emily hung up, too tactful to ask why I’d chosen my wedding day.

I traced the calendar’s red ring.

Fifteen days to grieve twenty years of love.

Fifteen days until I vanished into a lab—and Dominic Pearson became a ghost.