When The Flame Of Love Fades

On our seventh wedding anniversary, my husband's childhood sweetheart called, claiming a burst pipe at her home. Without a second thought, he ditched our celebration to play handyman. Moments later, Vivian Duffy's social media lit up with a smug post. [No matter when or where, my Superman arrives at one call. How should I reward him?] Accompanying the post was a photo of scattered condoms and torn clothing on the floor. I forced a smile, picked up my phone, and dialed a number. "My pipe is broken. Care to fix it?"

On our fourth wedding anniversary, I waited at home in vain. Ethan set off fireworks across the entire city for his first love. I was burned by the sparks and ended up in the hospital. Seeing my blackened wounds, he shielded his first love from the doorway and said coldly, "Don't look. It's disgusting." After returning home, I found lace lingerie in the washing machine on the balcony. I calmly took it out, folded it, and placed it on the living room table. Closing the lid, I booked a flight to London.

My childhood sweetheart and younger brother both fell in love with the underprivileged student who moved into our home. After she took my family and fiancé away from me, I chose to disappear from their lives forever. But after I left, the fiancé who once told me he wished I were dead went mad trying to find me.

Sophie Queen and William Locke were engaged for four years when Lily Manse, a woman whom William's been in a one-sided infatuation with, returned to the country. Every day, William would feed her and accompany her until she fell asleep. One day, Lily schemed to have both herself and Sophie poisoned by toxic gas, and she was happy when William kicked Sophie away to come to her rescue. Despite all this, Sophie refused to shed a single tear, but instead chose to silently disappear from his life. Yet, for some reason, William would later have Lily thrown into jail just so Sophie would give him another chance…

In the second year of our marriage, which Brett Mason had secured through relentless means, he brought home his latest conquest—a stunning blonde. As the door swung shut, he ran his fingers through her silky hair, flashing me a smug, triumphant grin. "Wanna join us? You might learn a thing or two about not being such a dead fish." I could still recall how he once adored my hair, claiming that just stroking it would melt away his deepest worries. It turned out any woman could serve that purpose. In that instant, a profound sense of release washed over me. I retrieved the divorce agreement I'd stashed away in a drawer and handed it to him. "Sign it, and I'll make room for her." My days were numbered, and I had no intention of wasting what little time remained entangled in his resentment.

I'm in the middle of my pediatric shift when an emergency call comes in. A three-year-old boy arrives, hemorrhaging and unconscious from a car crash, but there is no matching blood type in the bank. Then, it hits me that my husband, Ethan Stone, has the same blood type, so I ask him to donate blood right away. When he arrives and stands frozen to the spot, I can no longer hold back my rage. "What are you waiting for? Saving his life is the priority here!" That's when the boy's mother sprints over and screams, "No! Close family can't donate! He's the boy's father!"