A Divorce

Serena's POV

“You may never conceive again.”

The doctor said it softly, like that would make the words hurt less.

I still signed the abortion papers.

“Miss, are you sure about this?” She stared deeply into my eyes, probably hoping I would change my mind.

“Yes.” My voice came out steadier than I expected. “I haven't been this sure in a long time.”

She slowly set her pen down.

“Mrs Whitmore.” She folded her hands together. “You don't need to decide today. It's only three weeks.” She paused carefully. “Your uterine lining shows signs of significant weakness. The fact that this pregnancy succeeded…” She exhaled quietly. “Is frankly a miracle. There's no guarantee your body will allow this again.”

Her voice softened.

“This may be your only chance.”

Something cracked painfully inside my chest.

My fingers tightened around the edge of the chair.

“No qualms,” I interrupted before she could continue. “I don't intend on giving birth anyway.”

Especially not for a man like him.

She studied me for a long moment before finally nodding in defeat.

“Okay. I'll prepare you for the necessary procedures.” She glanced back at the monitor. “You'll need a minimum of three days to recover. I suggest you stay here during that period.”

“Noted.”

My appointment for the abortion was scheduled, and that was the first part of it.

I gathered my bag, thanked the doctor, and stood up to leave. But I paused when I looked down at the appointment card in my hand.

A small frown settled on my face.

The earlier, the better.

“Doctor?” I turned back slightly. “I'm sorry, but can the date be moved forward?”

Confusion crossed her face.

“I have an engagement that day,” I explained quietly. “I'd rather get it over with and recover before then.”

Something flashed across her expression.

Pity.

“Alright,” she said gently. “I can move it to two days from now.”

“That'll be fine.” I managed a small nod. “Thank you.”

The door clicked shut behind me.

Only then did I release the breath trapped inside my lungs.

My hand slowly moved to my stomach.

The child wasn't at fault.

A sharp ache spread through my chest at the thought.

The baby was innocent.

Completely innocent.

But I also knew the kind of world I would be bringing it into.

A world where its father's hands belonged to another woman. A world where it would either grow up blind to the truth or destroyed by it.

I wouldn't do that to my child.

For three years, Damien and I had tried for a baby.

God, in the beginning, he was everything.

He used to leave little notes in my lunch bag. Just a sentence. "You looked beautiful this morning." "Can't wait to see you tonight." Nothing grand, but I kept every single one in my nightstand drawer.

He never once looked at another woman. I tested him once—pointed out a waitress I thought was pretty, just to see. He just shrugged and said, "I didn't notice," and went back to cutting his steak. And I believed him.

On our first anniversary, he made love to me like I was something precious. Like he was afraid I'd break. Afterward, he held my face in both hands and just stared at me for a long time. "You're my home," he said.

That night had stayed with me for years.

Everything was fine until he started changing.

He became distant. Moody. Aggressive.

He stopped touching me the way he used to. And when he finally did, it no longer felt like love.

It felt angry.

Rough.

Like he was pouring frustration into my skin.

At least he never laid a hand on me.

Recently, he started leaving early and coming home late. Every time I asked about it, his answers were always the same.

“I'm tired. We'll talk tomorrow.”

“I had a meeting.”

“I need peace to work.”

So I gave him peace.

I gave him space.

I gave him patience.

Even when it slowly broke my heart.

I convinced myself he was stressed. Overworked. Exhausted.

I was wrong.

The night everything shattered was when he looked me dead in the eyes and slammed his fist against the table.

“You have no right to question my lateness,” he snapped coldly. “It's none of your business.”

For the first time in three years, my husband looked at me like I disgusted him.

Fresh air hit my face as I stepped outside the hospital, but it did nothing to ease the heaviness inside me.

My knees burned with exhaustion.

My phone vibrated inside my bag.

I pulled it out and answered when I saw the caller ID.

“Hello, Lawyer Lawrence speaking. Am I speaking with Mrs Whitmore?”

“Oh, hi, Mr Lawrence. Yes, it's me.”

“My assistant mentioned you stopped by my office this morning. My apologies, I had a hearing.”

Typical lawyer.

“How can I help you?”

I hesitated briefly before speaking.

“Can you help me draft divorce papers?”

Silence.

Then—

“A divorce?”

“Yes.” My throat tightened painfully. “I want to divorce my husband.”

And for the first time in three years—

I meant it.