Chapter five

Chapter Five

Mia insisted that I stay at her apartment until my fever disappeared.

“You are not going back to that mansion just to prove you can stand upright,” she said, placing a bowl of soup on the coffee table.

“I wasn't planning to.”

“Good. Because I have no intention of watching you collapse for a man who wouldn't cross a room for you.”

I managed a small smile. “You make it sound simple.”

“It is simple. He keeps choosing her. You keep getting hurt. Now you choose yourself.”

I ate a few spoonfuls. My appetite was returning, but my thoughts kept circling the hospital. Liam had looked at Scarlett as though the rest of the world had disappeared. I had seen that expression before, years ago, in photographs from their relationship.

I had once believed marriage would change it.

The next afternoon, Mia drove me to collect my prescription and a few things from the mansion. I had no intention of staying long. The housekeeper let us in, then told me Liam had gone out.

I was relieved.

As we passed the sitting room, my phone vibrated. A message from a number I did not recognise appeared.

“You should know the truth before everyone else does.“

An image followed. It showed Scarlett outside a private hospital entrance, Liam beside her. The caption beneath the photograph was brief.

“Congratulations to the parents-to-be.“

I stared at the screen.

Mia leaned over. “What is it?”

I showed her.

Her expression changed. “She's pregnant?”

“I don't know.”

“That's definitely what the picture suggests.”

I enlarged the image. Liam's hand rested against Scarlett's waist. His expression was protective, almost tender. I wondered how long he had known. I wondered whether he had planned to tell me or whether he expected me to accept whatever explanation he eventually offered.

My phone rang. Ethan.

“Isabella, I received your message. The petition is being prepared. I need to ask whether there are any developments that could affect the case.”

I looked at the photograph again. “Scarlett may be pregnant.”

There was a pause. “Do you have confirmation?”

“Only a photograph.”

“Send it to me. Don't contact her or confront your husband. We need facts, not assumptions.”

I forwarded the image.

Mia watched me. “You aren't going to ask him?”

“No.”

“Not even to find out whether the baby is his?”

I shook my head. “If he wanted me to know, he would tell me. And if he doesn't, I don't need to beg for the truth.”

I collected my medication and the small box of personal documents I had left in the bedroom. On my way downstairs, I passed the framed wedding photograph in the hallway. I had once asked Liam to choose a place for it. He had told the staff to hang it wherever they liked.

I stopped and looked at it. My smile was bright. His was restrained.

I wondered how many people had noticed the difference.

At Mia's apartment, she suggested we attend a small gathering later that week. It was organised by a mutual friend and would include several people from Liam's social circle.

“I don't want to see them,” I said.

“Then don't go for them. Go because you deserve to leave the house without worrying about who might be there.”

I considered it.

“Besides,” she added, “you shouldn't have to disappear because your husband has decided to parade his former lover around town.”

I laughed softly. “You make everything sound like a battle.”

“Only because they keep treating you like you have no right to defend yourself.”

That evening, I called Benjamin. He asked whether I was feeling better and reminded me that the exhibition deadline was approaching.

“I'll bring something by next week,” I promised.

“Good. And Isabella?”

“Yes?”

“Don't paint what you think people want to see. Paint what you need to say.”

After we ended the call, I opened my sketchbook. I drew a woman standing on a bridge, facing a distant light. Her back was straight. Her hands were empty.

I worked until midnight.

The next morning, Liam called.

“Where are you?”

“At a friend's.”

“You should come home. We need to discuss Scarlett.”

I held the phone away from my ear for a moment. “Why?”

“Because there are things you need to understand.”

“Then say them.”

“Not over the phone.”

I looked at the sketch on my desk. “I don't think there's anything left to understand, Liam.”

“Don't be dramatic.”

“I'll see you when the divorce papers are served.”

He went silent.

I ended the call before he could answer.

I thought about the child for longer than I expected. If the pregnancy was real, Liam might soon become a father. I wondered whether he would attend every appointment, learn every preference and rearrange his life around the baby. The thought did not make me angry with an unborn child. It made me grieve for the years I had spent hoping he would show me even a fraction of that consideration. I had wanted a family once. I had wanted a home where affection was given freely, not measured against another woman's needs.

That night, I opened the drawer where I kept our wedding photographs. I did not destroy them. I placed the album in a box with the pearl necklace and bracelet. The photographs belonged to a part of my life, even if the promises in them had not survived. I sealed the box and wrote no label on it. Some memories did not need to be displayed, but neither did they need to be denied. I could acknowledge that I had loved Liam and still accept that leaving him was necessary.

Before bed, I checked the email from Ethan. He had received the image and would keep it with the other material for review. He reminded me not to make assumptions about paternity or disclose private information publicly. I appreciated the caution. I did not want revenge. I wanted a clean end to a marriage that had become a place of constant humiliation. If the truth about Scarlett's pregnancy mattered legally, Ethan would determine how. My task was to stop allowing it to define my days.