The Wild Freedom I Choose

The Wife Who Would Not Yield

Cyran froze, staring at me as if the words had knocked the air out of him. After a long pause, he stepped forward like a man pleading for mercy and reached for my hand.

"What are you saying? You're my only wife. Don't ever throw around talk of divorce like that."

I pulled back from his touch.

"Didn't you already regret choosing me? Divorce would free you to run back to your old flame."

My relentless push finally stripped away his patience.

"Elara, Celia is gentle and thoughtful. She understands me in ways you never have. She's so much better than you. Six years ago, I failed her once. This time—whether for her or for the child—I won't let you keep making a scene. Forget about divorce. My wife—and the mother of my child—will always be you."

With that, he turned and disappeared into Celia's room.

I looked down at the competition notice in my hand, emotions churning in every direction.

I had planned to retire from the sport after this event, no matter the outcome, and return to family life. But now, there was no reason to.

I called the Wynter family's attorney and began preparing the divorce papers.

…

On the final day of training, a sharp cramp twisted through my stomach.

The staff noticed the color drain from my face and called Cyran.

A harsh laugh crackled through the phone. "So now she remembers how to play the helpless victim? I've got more important things to do than waste time on her little act."

Cyran's scornful voice poured from the speaker, cold and dismissive.

On the way to the hospital, the staff kept stealing glances at me, their eyes heavy with sympathy.

"The issue isn't serious, but you should be careful with strenuous activity during this stage."

The doctor glanced over my test results, found nothing alarming, and discharged me.

I had barely stepped out of the ward when I ran straight into Cyran and Celia.

Celia, hand resting on her swollen belly, instantly slipped her arm through Cyran's the moment she saw me.

"Cyran came with me for my prenatal checkup. Elara, what are you doing here?"

Cyran's expression tightened, uneasy, as though it hadn't occurred to him that I might truly be unwell. After a pause, he forced out a few words.

"What happened to you?"

I met his eyes coolly. "Didn't you say you had no time for me? Of course—the long-awaited child matters far more than I ever could."

My words silenced him, wiping the awkwardness from his face.

"Stop with the sarcasm. Right now, Celia and the baby are all that matter. If you're not on your deathbed, don't stand here putting on a show for sympathy."

With that, he guided Celia away.

As we brushed past, Celia's triumphant smirk flashed—her entire demeanor that of a victor basking in conquest.

I stood watching them walk off, my throat burning with bitterness.

To see the man I had loved with my whole heart for six years lavishing his care on another woman—no matter how strong I tried to be, there was no way to shake it off so quickly.

…

The next day, the competition went ahead as scheduled. My horse, Acorn, and I advanced to the finals with the highest score.

When I returned home, I found Cyran massaging Celia's back.

The moment she noticed me, Celia pressed a hand to her mouth and began to gag dramatically.

"What's wrong, Celia?"

Cyran patted her back, concern etched across his face.

"I'm fine—it's just a sudden wave of nausea. Must be something I smelled," Celia murmured, hand still over her mouth.

Then, she glanced at me with feigned innocence. "Maybe it's Elara. I've never been near a stable, so I'm not used to that smell."

Her words dripped with malice, and Cyran's face darkened as his gaze swung toward me.

"You come back from the stables without even cleaning yourself up? Filthy smells like that could make Celia sick. What are you trying to do?"

I retreated to my room, a heaviness pressing against my chest.

When Cyran had first fallen for me, he would show up at the stables every other day just to watch me train.

Back then, he never once complained about the smell. He would even roll up his sleeves to help me muck out the stalls and bathe Acorn.

But those days were gone. Now, all his tenderness was reserved for Celia, and to him I was little more than an irritant.

Yet that night, just before I could slip into sleep, Cyran called out to me.