The Unanswered Emergency Calls

In the Uber on the way home, I forwarded the divorce papers we had drawn up ages ago to my lawyer and friend, Maya Singh.

I sent a message: "Maya, if the agreement looks solid, please print two copies ASAP. The sooner this is over, the better."

A moment later, Maya replied, "Got it."

Most of the clauses were supplemental to our prenuptial agreement, which Griffin himself had a lawyer draft to reassure me. If he cheated or fell out of love, he would sign over management of his company and the majority of our shared assets.

Back then, his eyes had been full of adoration, certain he would never break his vows.

But time corrodes all things, even the most heartfelt vows.

It was already six in the evening when I got back to our lakeside villa in Medina.

The unopened organic groceries we had left in the kitchen two days ago had rotted in the heat, filling the house with a sour, putrid stench.

It was obvious Griffin hadn't been home at all.

I forced myself to shower, took painkillers for the cramps, then retreated to the guest room and collapsed into a heavy sleep.

In the middle of the night, the front door was thrown open. I heard someone rush through the master bedroom towards my door, and then—

Bang!

The guest room door was kicked open.

The next moment, the harsh overhead light flickered on. Griffin stood there, his brow furrowed in anger.

"Rowan, are you out of your mind? I'm your husband! You can't just check out of the hospital without a word! Do you have any idea how worried I was when I got there and you were gone?"

When my eyes adjusted, I saw him standing in the doorway, panting, clutching a bag of cold, high-end takeout. His expression was a mask of icy accusation.

And from behind him, a timid figure appeared. It was Briar, draped in a men's hoodie several sizes too big, her pale face framed by dark hair. I noticed she wasn't wearing pants, her long, slender legs stark white in the light.

I recognized the hoodie immediately. It was a limited-edition UW one I had given Griffin for his birthday.

Funny, I remembered him telling me he'd lost it just last month.

He didn't notice his lie had been exposed. He just saw my silence and grew angrier, hurling the bag of food at me. I had no time to dodge as a container burst open, splattering greasy sauce across my duvet and skin.

Griffin pointed a trembling finger at me, his words laced with accusation: "The doctor said you have a high-risk pregnancy and could miscarry at any moment! Do you not even care about our child? Rowan, can't you be a little more mature?"

"I looked for you for half an hour! Would it have killed you to send a single text saying you were discharged?!"