Chapter 4

November 12th. Our ten-year anniversary.

I had once imagined countless times that I would set our wedding date on this very day—to give our long love story the perfect culmination.

But three months ago, in the dead of night, Ella had suddenly woken up crying in my arms. She held me tight, her tears falling heavy on my chest, her voice shaking so heartbreakingly: "Liam, I had a terrible dream that you left me... I don't want to wait until November anymore. Ten years is too long—even one day sooner would be better. I want to become your wife right now. I want to be tied to you forever..."

What a passionate, moving confession it was.

Seeing her red, tearful eyes, my heart ached beyond measure. The very next day, I dropped all my work and poured everything I had into planning a grand wedding for her.

Even though the past three months of marriage had been soured by that absurd embryo, I still clung to that lifeline, deceiving myself into believing things could be salvaged.

I booked time off from the recording studio two weeks early and spent half a month's salary renting the old bookstore in Brooklyn where we'd had our first date.

I climbed a ladder, stringing warm yellow fairy lights across every shelf.

On the center display table sat the very first Polaroid we'd taken together ten years ago.

I wanted this surprise to wake her up. I wanted to tell her: just get through these few months, have the baby, and we can still be us.

I reached into my pocket to test the lights—my fingers came up empty. The spare key to the control box was still on the nightstand in the apartment.

I shoved the door open and rushed into the cold wind. I had to get back before Ella returned from her prenatal checkup.

When I pushed open the apartment door, the living room was silent.

Lucas's mother must have already gone to sleep.

I tiptoed through the hallway like a thief in my own home, heading for the master bedroom.

The door wasn't fully closed. A dim yellow light spilled through the gap onto the hallway carpet.

Then I heard the sound.

"Slap—slap—"

The wet, rhythmic impact of skin on skin, accompanied by the creaking groan of the oak bedframe I'd assembled with my own hands.

Every drop of blood drained from my body in that instant. My hand hovered half an inch above the doorknob, trembling violently, as I peered through the narrow crack.

I saw the most gut-wrenching image of my life.

My elegant, graceful new wife was gripping the edge of the nightstand—where our wedding photo still sat—her knuckles white. Her wine-red silk robe was crumpled on the floor like a dirty rag.

Lucas pressed against her from behind, thrusting roughly.

Her pale back was covered in red marks he'd left. She didn't resist—instead, she arched her neck high, letting out those sickeningly sweet moans I hadn't heard in half a year.

"Does your husband know you moan this slutty in private?" Lucas panted, reaching around to grope her slightly swollen belly. "This baby inside you is mine."

"Ah... go easy, be careful with the baby..." Ella didn't push him away—she pressed back against him, her voice drunk with pleasure.

My stomach churned; a metallic taste rose in my throat.

My nails dug deep into the wooden doorframe, splinters piercing my fingertips, blood seeping through the cracks—but I felt no pain.

"No need for IVF. A baby conceived the natural way is stronger." Lucas laughed low. "That fake 'successful implantation' report cost me quite a bit, you know."

"Don't even mention it..." Ella panted. "Those first five failed IVF cycles nearly killed me—all those hormone shots and nothing took. If the doctor hadn't privately suggested that my body didn't respond well to the medication, and that we should try 'natural conception' instead... I wouldn't have had to resort to this."

She paused, and after a pitchy moan, her voice even carried a hint of aggrieved justification: "The only reason I kept it from Liam was because I was afraid he'd lose it. As long as the baby is born, that's all that matters. I just didn't want to upset him..."

Everything clicked into place in my mind.

Why the authorization form was dated three months before the wedding.

Why she had suddenly begged me, crying, to move the wedding up.

Because she had already signed the surrogacy contract by then!

She knew that once the IVF process started, she wouldn't be able to hide it.

She was afraid that if we waited until our ten-year anniversary to marry, I would leave her without hesitation when the truth came out.

So she used her most tearful performance, the lie of "I'm afraid of losing you," to trap me in marriage—locking me in legally with no way out.

Then on our wedding night, she spun the "repaying a debt" sob story, using the life-saving favor from ten years ago to morally blackmail me into willingly playing the fool who'd cover for her.

I stared through the crack at those two tangled bodies, and the flame of love that had burned in my chest for ten years was extinguished in that moment by the filthiest truth, reduced to rotting ash.

I didn't push the door open. I didn't storm in to catch them in the act. I didn't make a sound.

Because I was disgusted.

Even the air in this room made me want to vomit.

I slowly released the bloodied doorknob and turned around. My steps were lighter than a ghost's as I walked out.

The moment I pushed open the apartment building's front door, November's icy wind howled down my open collar.

I shivered violently.

Only then did I realize my coat was still draped over the walnut dining chair upstairs.

But I didn't look back. I would never set foot in this place again.

Like a hollowed-out corpse, I stood stiffly under the flickering streetlamp, pulled out my phone, and opened my lawyer's chat.

My fingers typed mechanically, each word dripping with bloody hatred:

"File for divorce. Grounds: marital fraud."

"Take it all the way to the end. No settlement."