Chapter 1

Elizabeth's POV

The head of the obstetrics department frowned deeply when she took the report from me.

"Are you alone?" she asked. "Where's your husband?"

I smiled but didn't explain myself. Instead, I just said, "I don't have one."

"You need someone to watch over you in your current condition," she said in a tone that suggested there would be no room for compromise, pointing to the data in the report.

"High blood pressure and proteinuria. Both are symptoms of preeclampsia. You're at risk of convulsions, cerebral hemorrhaging, and placental abruption at any time."

"I understand. Thank you, doctor."

My phone vibrated after I walked out of the consultation room.

Quinn Farris had sent me a photo.

She was wearing my silk nightgown as she lounged on the couch in my home, holding the cat I had cared for for the last three years.

The straps of the nightgown had slipped down to her elbows, but she didn't bother fixing them, languidly exposing her shoulders.

"This nightgown is so comfortable, Liz. Why didn't you wear it more often?"

My husband, Jonathan Myers, had bought that nightgown for me when we got married.

I had stashed it at the bottom of the drawer with the intention of wearing it again after I gave birth and regained my figure.

I stared at the photo for a long time. I then navigated to my chat with Jonathan and typed out a message.

"I've signed the divorce agreement. It's in the second drawer of the bedside cabinet in the master bedroom."

However, when I sent the message, a red exclamation mark popped up.

Jonathan had blocked my number.

I didn't know when it happened, but I no longer had a place in his world.

…

I wasn't known as "Mrs. Myers" three years ago. Instead, I was known as Elizabeth Barry.

I was born in Cardelin and was a member of the International Doctors Alliance (IDA). I worked as a surgeon for the organization and was stationed in Yorniso.

I performed surgery on the battlefield thrice, and I delivered 43 children in refugee camps. When the sounds of shelling stretched on into the night, I stitched up a 12-year-old boy whose abdomen had been torn apart by shrapnel with only a single headlamp to guide my hands.

Jonathan appeared in my life when I returned to Cardelin for a three-month break.

He was an investor. A cool, refreshing scent of cologne always clung to him. Whenever he spoke to someone, he would lower his head slightly to look at them. He dedicated all his attention to them, giving them the wrong impression that they were the only person in his world.

Jonathan told me that he admired people like me the most.

"Did you know, Elizabeth? You looked like you were glowing when I saw you for the first time."

We were in his car when he admitted this to me. The dazzling city lights of Cliffton sparkled beyond the window.

Jonathan took my hand. He caressed the back of my hand with his thumb as if he were handling a precious treasure.

"You're just a woman, but you saved so many lives in such a far-away place. I'm just an ordinary person. What do I have to do to be worthy of someone like you?"

At the time, I thought that I had finally met someone who understood me.