Chapter 3

I sat up. The wound throbbed, but adrenaline numbed it.

I opened a bookmarked link on my phone—a premier private postpartum wellness retreat. Top-tier luxury, round-the-clock medical care, private suites, and an insane price tag.

I had looked at it countless times during pregnancy, crunching numbers, only to abandon the idea out of guilt.

Ethan's paycheck went into an account I managed, roughly ten grand a month, and we had modest savings.

I had kept telling myself that babies were expensive and every dollar counted.

Not anymore.

I tapped the screen, selected their all-inclusive 28-day VIP package, and swiped my card for the full amount.

The confirmation screen popped up. Seeing all those zeros wiped from the balance felt shockingly vindicating.

I swung my legs out of bed. My knees buckled slightly, but I gripped the headboard until I found my balance.

I opened the closet and grabbed my small carry-on bag.

Ethan's calls poured in back-to-back.

I ignored them. The SnapChat messages followed in rapid succession.

He said he was downstairs in the hospital parking lot, begging me not to leave.

I muted my phone and gently scooped up my baby girl.

I threw on a coat, gripped the luggage handle, and supported myself against the wall as I shuffled toward the exit.

The elevator doors slid open just as Ethan charged out.

His hair was wild, his jacket half-buttoned, chest heaving.

"Chloe!" He lunged forward to grab my arm.

I stepped back, clutching my daughter closer.

"Stay back. Don't touch me."

"Please let me explain," his voice trembled. "It's not what you think. That girl was set up by my mom—"

"Your mom found her, your mom told you to go, your mom forced you."

I finished his sentence for him.

"Got any new lines?"

He froze.

I dragged my suitcase past him, wheels clicking heavily against the linoleum tiles.

He chased after me, throwing an arm out to block the elevator doors. "Chloe, give me ten minutes. Just ten minutes. We can sit down and talk!"

"I said, we're getting a divorce."

"No!"

He shouted, drawing glances from nurses down the hallway.

"I'm not divorcing you, Chloe! Never!"

I looked at this man I had known for six years and married for three.

His eyes were bloodshot, lips shaking, looking utterly devastated.

Yet hours ago, he was smiling tenderly at another woman.

"Move," I said.

Instead, he grabbed my suitcase with one hand and reached to wrap his other arm around me.

With a newborn in my arms, I couldn't dodge. His arm clamped around my shoulders, yanking me in.

"Let go of me," my voice dropped to ice.

"I won't! If I let go, you'll leave!"

I shifted my daughter securely to my left arm, reared back my right hand, and slapped him across the face with every ounce of strength I had left.

The corridor fell dead silent.

His head snapped sideways. A bright red handprint bloomed across his cheek.

"You slapped me?" he gasped.

"I can do it again."

He didn't flinch. He just stared, the mark reddening by the second.

"Hit me again if you want. Just hear me out, please."

I lowered my hand—not out of mercy, but because holding my daughter left me without the energy for a second strike.

"Chloe."

He swallowed hard.

"I really love you."

I stared at him in disgust.

"That woman... it was an accident. My mom introduced her because her family is wealthy, and she kept pushing me."

"I said no so many times, but my mom set up a dinner. She pushed drinks on me. I got wasted, and then..."

"And then you ended up in bed," I finished flatly.