Chapter 3

He showed up the next morning with flowers.

Not for me. For the nurses' station, because Serena had told him it was "good etiquette when visiting hospitals." He walked in carrying a polished paper bag from a luxury bakery—Serena's favorite macarons—and only after setting them on the counter did he turn to me.

"How are you feeling?"

I looked at this man—six-foot-two, immaculate suit, not a hair out of place—and I felt nothing. Not anger. Not heartbreak. Just a vast, echoing emptiness.

"Our daughter is dead, Dominic."

He flinched. For one fleeting second, I saw something real cross his face. Pain, maybe. Or the shadow of it.

Then his phone buzzed, and he glanced at it.

"Serena's asking if you need anything. She feels terrible about what happened. She wanted to come herself, but she's still recovering from—"

"Get out."

He blinked. "What?"

"Get out of my room."

His expression hardened—that familiar look of a man who believed he was always the most reasonable person in any room. "Freya, I know you're hurting, but don't take it out on me. I didn't push you down those stairs."

No. He just sent me to the basement while nine months pregnant so his precious Serena could have the master suite.

"I want a divorce," I said.

The words came out calm. Quiet, even. Like I was ordering coffee.

Dominic stared at me. Then he laughed—a short, disbelieving sound. "You're being emotional. We'll talk about this when you're better."

"I'm not being emotional. I've never been clearer. I want a divorce."

His jaw tightened. "Freya, you signed a contract. You don't get to just walk away."

Ah, yes. The contract.

Two years ago, Dominic Ashford needed a wife to secure his inheritance. His grandmother's will stipulated that he must be married before thirty to claim the Ashford estate. Serena, his childhood sweetheart, had just married someone else—my father—making her my stepsister.

So Dominic settled for the next best thing: me. The stepdaughter of the woman he actually wanted. A convenient replacement.

Our marriage was a contract. Three years, and he'd get his inheritance. In return, I'd get five million dollars and full funding for my pharmaceutical research.

I'd agreed because I was desperate—my mother's medical bills were drowning me, and my research funding had been slashed. I told myself it was a business arrangement. That I wouldn't fall for him.

But somewhere between the late nights he'd bring me coffee at the lab and the rare mornings he'd cook breakfast before anyone was awake, I'd broken my own rule.

I fell in love with a man who was in love with someone else.

"The contract says either party can exit with thirty days' notice and forfeiture of financial compensation," I recited from memory. "I'm giving my notice. Keep the five million. I don't want it."

Dominic's face went pale. "You're throwing away five million dollars? Your mother's treatment—"

"Is none of your concern anymore."

I met his eyes, and for the first time in two years, I wasn't the one looking away first.

He stepped closer, voice dropping. "Freya, listen to me. You're not thinking straight. Serena will be gone in a week. I'll make this up to you. We can try for another baby—"

"Another baby?" I whispered. "You want to replace the daughter you couldn't even show up for?"

He went silent.

"Get out, Dominic. And send your lawyer. I'll send mine."

He stood there for a long moment, searching my face for the old Freya—the one who always caved, always forgave, always waited. But that Freya had died on the basement stairs with her baby.

He left without another word.

The macarons sat untouched on the counter. I asked the nurse to throw them away.