Chapter 4: "Let's Get a Divorce"

“There, there,” Petra murmured softly, her voice warm and calm. “Mommy is here.”

The baby made a small sound and kicked his tiny legs against the blanket.

Petra lay on the hospital bed, her back slightly propped up with pillows.

Her face still looked pale, but there was a soft smile resting on her lips as she looked at the tiny bundle lying beside her.

Her baby boy was awake.

Petra reached out and gently patted his stomach. She laughed quietly.

“You’re already stubborn like your father,” she whispered.

A nurse standing nearby watched them with a faint smile.

After a moment, Petra looked up at her.

“You can put him to bed now,” she said joyfully, though her voice still carried the weakness of someone recovering from illness.

The nurse nodded. “Of course.”

She stepped forward and carefully lifted the baby from the bed, cradling him gently in her arms before carrying him to the small crib placed beside the wall.

Just then, the door opened.

Pete stepped into the room.

He walked past the nurse without saying much, heading straight toward Petra’s bed. He was holding a small paper bag in his hand, and his expression carried an unusual brightness.

The moment Petra saw him, the soft warmth on her face faded.

Her expression hardened almost instantly.

“Dear, you’re awake,” Pete said gently as he approached the bed. His smile looked genuine, almost relieved.

Petra said nothing.

She simply turned her head away and stared at the opposite wall.

Pete didn’t seem to notice, or perhaps he pretended not to.

“You could’ve told me you were sick,” he continued while placing the bag on the small table beside the bed. “The neighbors said an ambulance came for you last night. I rushed over immediately.”

He sighed as he pulled the chair closer and sat down beside the bed.

Then he began opening the small bag he had brought.

“Dear,” he said with excitement as he removed a small container. “I brought your favorite crab dumplings.”

He lifted the lid proudly.

“They’re still warm. Aren’t they the best?”

He carefully took one dumpling and held it up slightly, as if he expected Petra to suddenly become excited.

But Petra didn’t even glance at it. She kept staring blankly at the ceiling.

Not once did she look at him. Or acknowledged the food.

Her mind replayed the events of the night before like a slow painful movie.

If Bernard had not called the ambulance when he did, no one knew how things might have ended.

Pete hadn’t even bothered to check if she survived the night.

Yet here he was now, acting like the caring husband who rushed to her side.

'You even have the nerve to take credit,' Petra whispered inside her bitterly.

Slowly, she turned her head towards him.

“Pete,” she said calmly, though her voice carried a quiet sharpness. “I’ve told you multiple times.”

Her eyes settled on the dumpling in his hand. “I’m allergic to crabs.”

Pete froze instantly.

The dumpling stopped halfway between them.

For a moment, his mind seemed to struggle to process what she had just said. Then realization slowly dawned on his face.

“Oh.”

He swallowed awkwardly.

Without saying another word, he quietly placed the dumpling back into the container and began packing everything back into the bag.

The excitement that had been on his face a few seconds ago disappeared.

When he finished, he dropped the bag on the floor beside the chair.

Then he turned back to her with a forced smile.

“Dear,” he said softly while reaching for her hand. “I didn’t mean to. I was just—”

“What is it?” Petra snapped suddenly, cutting him off. Her hand jerked away from his touch.

The sharpness in her voice filled the room immediately.

Pete blinked in surprise.

“You forgot?” she continued, her eyes locked onto his. “Because it wasn’t important?”

She slowly pushed herself up against the pillows, sitting straighter on the bed.

Her gaze did not leave his face.

“These crab dumplings are Zoe’s favorite,” she said coldly. “To you, only Zoe’s preferences matter.”

Pete frowned slightly.

“What are you talking about?” he said defensively. “We’re just friends. Zoe has always been good to me. You’re making it sound like I’m simping for her.”

Petra stared at him for a long moment.

Then she laughed quietly.

But the laugh carried no joy.

“Last year,” she began slowly, “you went to meet a client.”

Pete’s brows furrowed.

“You remember that meeting, right?”

He didn’t answer.

“Zoe insisted on following you,” Petra continued. “Even though she had absolutely nothing to do with the business.”

Her voice trembled slightly as the memory resurfaced.

“She claimed the client was giving her dirty looks.”

Pete shifted slightly in his chair.

“And without even checking the facts,” Petra continued, her voice tightening, “you beat the man up in front of everyone.”

Her eyes burned with restrained emotion. “That fight cost the company hundreds of millions.”

That night had been chaos.

The client had stormed out in anger after Pete attacked him.

Security guards rushed in.

Employees stood around in shock.

And outside the building, under the heavy rain, Petra had run after the client.

Her pregnant stomach had been large and heavy then. She had fallen to her knees in the parking lot, begging him to reconsider, to forgive her husband's ignorance.

Rain poured over her head, soaking her clothes completely.

But she didn’t care.

Her body had been shaking from stress and exhaustion.

Hours later, the pressure triggered premature labor.

She was rushed to the hospital that same night. Her life and the baby’s had nearly slipped away.

Petra’s eyes glistened with pain as she looked at Pete now.

“I nearly died that night,” she said quietly. “The premature labor and the stress almost killed me.”

Pete remained silent.

His arms slowly folded across his chest.

“And when that happened,” Petra continued, her voice trembling with disappointment, “where was Zoe?”

She leaned forward slightly. “Where was your so-called best friend?”

Pete looked away.

“We’ve been married for four years,” Petra said bitterly. “And this same thing keeps happening again and again.”

Her hands clenched on the bedsheet. “You can indulge her as much as you want,” she said slowly. “But I can’t.”

The room fell silent for a few seconds.

Petra released a long exhausted breath. “I’m tired.”

Pete’s expression darkened.

He sighed heavily.

But Petra had already turned slightly and reached beneath her pillow.

She pulled out a thin file.

Her fingers brushed through her hair as she pushed it back, then she faced him again.

Slowly, she extended the file toward him.

Pete frowned and took it.

On the front page, bold black letters stared back at him.

DIVORCE AGREEMENT.

Petra’s voice came out calm. But it carried the weight of four painful years.

“Let’s get a divorce.”