Chapter 4

I had done everything a wife was supposed to do and, to be fair, Raymond had done what was expected of a husband.

He provided, offered protection when it was needed, and never failed to play his part in public.

On paper, our marriage looked perfectly respectable.

For five years, there was only one thing missing. He never loved me.

The tragedy was that I had loved him enough for both of us.

From the day I learned Raymond was my fiancé, my world had quietly begun revolving around him. Every decision I made, every plan I formed, and every hope I carried for the future somehow included him.

Somewhere along the way, everything became about Raymond.

Even after I realized he had never truly forgotten Lilian, I stayed. I stayed through the lingering looks, the late-night phone calls, the endless excuses, and the growing distance between us that no amount of effort could bridge.

Because I loved him.

Because a part of me stubbornly believed that sincerity could accomplish anything, I convinced myself that if I loved Raymond enough, he would eventually love me back.

I never expected a grand, all-consuming passion. I did not need him to love me desperately. I only wanted a little affection, and for the longest time, I believed even that would be enough.

I was wrong.

Completely wrong.

Some hearts simply refuse to belong to me, and no matter how much warmth I poured into them, they remained cold.

After five years of marriage and more than a decade loving him, I was finally tired, truly tired. For the first time, there was no place left in my heart for Raymond, and the truth was that he did not deserve one.

After the procedure, I remained alone in the hospital room for five hours. The white walls blurred together as the silence stretched endlessly around me, yet my phone never rang. Raymond never called.

The absence did not surprise me. If anything, it felt painfully familiar.

Throughout our marriage, I had always been the one reaching out first. I was the one who made soup when he worked too late, reminded him to eat, worried about his health, his sleep, and the stress he carried home every night.

Looking back, I often felt less like a wife and more like a personal assistant, or perhaps even a servant.

That was the cruel thing about love. The person who loved more always gave more, and eventually that constant giving stopped being appreciated and simply became expected.

Raymond had grown accustomed to my concern, my sacrifices, and the certainty that no matter how far he drifted, I would still be there waiting for him. I knew him well enough to understand one thing: if I did not call first, he never would.

This time, however, I refused.

For once, I would not be the one chasing after him.

A few hours later, my phone finally rang. It was not Raymond.

It was Mandy.

One of the house staff.

Her voice was unusually cautious. "Mrs. Lowe... are you okay?"

Even Mandy had seen the news, which told me everything I needed to know about how thoroughly I had humiliated myself.

I closed my eyes briefly before forcing calmness into my voice. "I'm fine."

After a short pause, I added, "I'll be home soon. Could you make some soup for me?"

By the time the front door finally opened, Raymond walked in looking exhausted, the faint smell of hospital disinfectant still clinging to his clothes. I glanced at him briefly before lowering my eyes and continuing to eat.

His footsteps echoed through the room before he finally sat down across from me. He watched.

He waited.

The silence between us felt heavier than any argument. Only after I finished the last spoonful and rose from my chair did he finally speak.

"Annie." His voice was cold and openly accusatory. "You went too far this time. Do you have any idea how close Lilian came to getting hurt? How could you disappoint me like this?"

Slowly, I turned around. The exhaustion on his face was obvious, but so were the concern, the worry, and the sleepless night behind his eyes.

Every sign pointed to the same person.

Lilian.

He had spent the entire night at the hospital worrying about her, protecting her, comforting her.

Meanwhile, our child was already gone.

From beginning to end, he had not asked about the baby even once.

The realization should not have hurt anymore, yet somehow it still did.

For five years, we had shared the same home, the same table and the same bed.

After all that time, I would have thought something between us might have changed.

Yet Raymond remained as distant as ever.

Was love really the only difference?

I looked away.

When I finally spoke, my voice was calm enough to surprise even myself. "I'm sorry about last night. It was my fault," I continued quietly. "If you want, I'll apologize to Lilian."

For a moment, genuine confusion flashed across his face because that was not how our conversations usually went.

I had never been good at swallowing my anger, especially when it came to Lilian.

Ever since her return, Raymond and I had argued about her more than once.

The first time was after I won a major design award. It should have been one of the happiest days of my life. Raymond promised we would celebrate together, and I waited for hours believing he would show up. Then Lilian called, and he left without a second thought.

The second time was on my birthday. The candles had already been lit and the cake sat in front of me, but before I could even make a wish, his phone rang.

Lilian again.

Once again, he left.

The third time was Valentine's Day. I reserved a private dining room weeks in advance, spent hours choosing the perfect dress, and waited for him alone.

One hour passed, then two, then three, and eventually four.

He never came.

Later that night, I saw Lilian's post on social media. She and Raymond stood together beneath a sky full of stars, smiling on a bridge as though they belonged in the same picture.

Both looked happier than I had ever seen him with me.

The first three times, I swallowed the pain. I cried alone, endured it alone, and afterward convinced myself that things would eventually get better.