Divorcing My Cheating Professor

Elara's POV

I was five months pregnant, carrying lunch to my husband, when a conversation between two young women around the corner drifted into my ears.

"I still don't get why he married her. Now she’s nothing but a glorified housewife, waddling around with that massive bump just to bring him his meals. She doesn't deserve a guy like him."

"Hey, are you seriously into your own professor? He’s married. You’re destroying a family."

A sweet, delicate voice let out a soft laugh. "Wrecking? You have no idea how special I am to him. He makes his pregnant wife deliver his lunch personally, but most of that carefully prepared food ends up in my stomach. Do you think a normal professor-student relationship works like that?"

I froze in the shadows. Suddenly, a memory from a few nights ago flashed in my mind. Alistair had walked through the door, and I had asked him how he liked the honey-roasted meat empanadas I made. He loosened his tie and replied casually, "It was great, just a bit too spicy."

But the filling I had made that day was undeniably sweet...

As I walked out of the faculty building at Thornbury University, I had just finished dropping off Alistair's lunch. Being pregnant, I was supposed to be resting at home, but he never liked takeout, so I still brought him food from time to time.

It was when I was passing the corner of the academic building that the two girls' voices caught my attention.

"I still don't get why he married her. Now she’s nothing but a glorified housewife, waddling around with that massive bump just to bring him his meals. She doesn't deserve a guy like him."

The other girl lowered her voice. "Hey, are you seriously into your own professor? He’s married. You’re destroying a family."

"Destroying a family?" the first girl chuckled. "You don't know how he treats me. He makes his pregnant wife deliver his food, but most of those delicious meals go right into my stomach. Is that normal for a professor and his student?"

A few days ago, I had baked honey-roasted meat empanadas. That evening, when Alistair got home, I asked, "How were the empanadas?"

He loosened his tie. "Great. Just a little too spicy."

The meat filling was sweet. Alistair, who constantly praised my cooking, had misidentified the flavor for the very first time.

Shortly after I got home, Flavia walked in carrying a cooler bag. She had just returned from a trip to New Orleans. When I told her what I’d overheard in the hallway, she waved it off immediately. "Elara, you’re pregnant. Don't let your imagination run wild. Alistair was probably just exhausted from work and remembered the taste wrong."

"But that girl said the food I brought ended up in her stomach."

"Even if she was talking about him, she might just be bragging to feed her own ego," Flavia said, shoving some andouille sausage into the fridge. "Alistair has never lacked women throwing themselves at him. He’s the one who asked me to bring back your favorite sausage, and he even paid for my three-day flight and hotel. Does a husband who remembers exactly what you crave sound like someone who would betray you?"

"Money isn’t an issue for him."

"The point is he pays attention." She glanced at her phone and grabbed her coat. "I have to meet a client. Don’t let some random girl convince you to convict your husband."

After the door clicked shut, my mind drifted back to six years ago. People only saw the steady, devoted Alistair of today; they had no idea how abnormal our beginning had been.

The first time I met him was at the emergency bay of Sinclair Memorial Hospital. He had overdosed on sleeping pills, and I was the one who pulled him back. When he woke up, he stared at my name badge. "Elara Voss. I'll remember you."

"Just remember the doctor’s orders," I said, giving him his follow-up instructions before walking away. I didn't like prying into why my patients wanted to die.

Not long after, a multi-car pileup sent him back into my OR. Before we wheeled him in, his face was covered in blood. Enduring excruciating pain, he looked at me, his eyes entirely devoid of the will to live.

"Alistair, look at me. You are going to survive."

Four hours later, the surgery was a success. It wasn't until the police came to take his statement that I learned the crash was no accident—he had purposefully let go of the steering wheel.

The third time, I had just scrubbed out of a surgery when a nurse rushed over to intercept me. "Dr. Voss, it's Alistair Hale in the ER. Drowning in a bathtub, slashed wrists. He’s refusing treatment unless you’re the one treating him."

When I got there, he was soaked to the bone, blood dripping from his fingertips. The moment he saw me, he grew completely calm.

Three suicide attempts. Three times he’d only trusted me with his life. It was only now that I found myself asking: Was the person Alistair latched onto back then the doctor who saved his life, or a woman who could never refuse him?