Walking Away from the Wrong Love

Lyeaton City General Hospital.

"You have an ectopic pregnancy. If the fallopian tube ruptures, it could be fatal! This is major surgery—why are you alone? Where is your husband? He needs to sign the consent form, now!"

Gritting her teeth against the tearing agony in her abdomen, Ellie Winbury fumbled for her phone and dialed the one number that mattered.

The line rang into a void before a cold, detached voice finally answered. "What is it?"

"Derek…" she gasped, her voice thin with pain. "I'm at the hospital. My stomach hurts so badly… Can you please—"

"No."

The single word was a shard of ice, cutting her off before she could finish. His tone was low, annoyed, utterly frigid. "If you're in pain, see a doctor. I'm busy."

A woman's lilting voice floated faintly in the background. "Derek, who is it?"

"No one important." His voice softened instantly for the other woman. "Which one do you like? I'll get it for you."

Then came the cold beep… beep… beep of the call ending.

The sound sliced through her, sharper than any surgical blade. Her vision swam, the color draining from her face as the world tilted.

"Code Blue! She's crashing! Get her to the OR, now!"

Darkness swallowed her.

…

When Ellie awoke, the clinical white of a hospital room greeted her.

"You're awake? You were in critical condition. It's a miracle we got you into surgery in time." A nurse adjusted her IV, her voice dropping to a disapproving mutter. "Honestly, your husband… a life-threatening surgery and he couldn't be bothered to show up? Irresponsible man."

The nurse handed her a business card. "Here's a private care service. Call them if you need assistance at home."

"Thank you," Ellie whispered, her voice raw.

She reached for her phone to make the call, but a breaking news notification flashed across the screen:

[Lyeaton City's richest man, Housten Group CEO, Derek Housten, drops 14 million dollars on the Dubarry Diamond Necklace as his girlfriend's birthday gift!]

The headline burned her eyes.

The man in the photo—devastatingly handsome, effortlessly commanding—was her husband.

The husband who had never once held her hand in public. Four years of marriage. Four years of glacial indifference.

She had told herself it was just his nature. That if she was patient enough, gentle enough, obedient enough, she could eventually thaw the ice in his heart.

But the photo showed him smiling, his arm wrapped around another woman, the whole world watching them bathe in a romance she had only ever dreamed of.

And in that single, shattering moment, she finally understood. He had never loved her. Not once.

A pain, sharp and crushing, tore through her chest. Her eyes stung with the tears she refused to shed.

It was over.

This four-year farce of a marriage, this monument to her own humiliation, had reached its end.

…

Two days later, against medical advice, Ellie discharged herself.

"Your body is still very weak," the doctor cautioned, frowning. "You should stay for observation."

"I have matters to attend to at home."

"Then you must rest. No strenuous activity, and absolutely no intimacy. Return in one week for a follow-up."

"I understand. Thank you."

Back at the Bayshore Villa, the housekeeper, Mary Stause, greeted her with open contempt.

"My, my, look who's finally decided to come home. Getting bold, aren't you, disappearing for days? The Young Master will be furious!"

Mary was no ordinary servant; she had been Derek's wet nurse and carried herself with arrogance and superiority. To Ellie—the unwanted Mrs. Housten—she showed no respect whatsoever.

And Ellie knew why. Whether by Derek's direct order or his silent permission, he had allowed this woman to trample her dignity. In the past, she had endured it, swallowing every insult, believing her submission would buy her a sliver of peace.

Not this time.

With a sharp crack, her palm struck across Mary's face.

"Know your place. You are a servant. You do not speak to me that way."

"You—!" Mary clutched her face, eyes wide with shock and fury. "You dare hit me?"

"I do. What of it? Do you plan to strike your mistress back?"

The cold steel in Ellie's voice silenced her. No matter how little affection the Young Master had for his wife, she was still the Housten family's legally wedded lady—personally chosen by the matriarch.

Mary swallowed her rage, seething in silence.

Ellie turned and walked upstairs, Mary's venomous mutter trailing her.

"Pretty face or not, the Young Master still doesn't want you. That title of Mrs. Housten won't be yours for much longer!"

The words were a knife to the heart. She inhaled a shaky breath.

It didn't matter anymore. After tonight, nothing about Derek would matter.

In her room, Ellie packed her belongings. There wasn't much; a single suitcase sufficed. When she lifted it, a searing pain ripped through her abdomen. Cold sweat beaded on her forehead. She dry-swallowed several painkillers, waiting for the agony to recede into a dull, manageable throb.

Perhaps from the medication, an exhausted sleep soon claimed her.

…

Late that night, a tall figure entered the room.

The sound of the shower running echoed from the bathroom. Twenty minutes later, Derek Housten emerged with only a towel slung low around his narrow waist. His body was a landscape of hard, defined muscle, water droplets tracing paths down his chest before vanishing into the terrycloth.

He said nothing.

Without warning, he lifted the hem of her nightdress like it was a routine chore.

The pain jolted Ellie awake.

"It hurts…" she gasped, instinctively shoving against his chest. "Stop… Get off me…"

He let out a low, mocking laugh.

"What's this, a new game? Another one of your pathetic tricks to get a reaction?"

He didn't stop. His cold, scornful voice was a whisper against her ear.

"You were the one who begged my grandmother for this arrangement. One night a month. Having second thoughts now?"

The tearing sensation brought fresh, hot tears to her eyes. She knew he despised her.

Years ago, the Housten matriarch, seeing her grandson treat his wife as invisible, had mandated he share her bed one night each month. And every time, he treated it as a distasteful obligation—her body nothing more than a vessel for his release.

Four years of marriage. Four years of tiptoeing, of humbling herself, of begging for a single crumb of warmth. And for what?

Her voice was a broken whisper. "Derek… let's get a divor—"

The shrill ring of his phone cut her off.

He frowned—he hated being disturbed at night—but this time, he answered immediately.

"What's wrong?"

"Derek, I had a nightmare… I'm so scared. Can you come stay with me?" A woman's soft, pleading voice carried through the line.

"Alright." No hesitation. His voice softened, taking on a warmth Ellie had long craved but never been granted. "I'll be there in twenty minutes. Wait for me."

He hung up, dressed swiftly, and was gone without a backward glance.

Moments later, the sound of his car faded into the distance.

Tears soaked her pillow. Her pale fingers clutched the sheets, knuckles white with the strain.

Love and indifference. The difference between them was a cruelty she could definitely name.

…

The next morning, Ellie placed the signed divorce papers on his desk. She wheeled her single suitcase to the front door and stepped outside.

A stabbing, familiar pain ripped through her lower abdomen, followed by a sudden, warm gush between her legs.

She looked down and froze.

A pool of red was spreading at her feet.