Chapter 3: Hospital Lies and Shattered Trust

But not tonight. Drunk and dizzy, I would have tried to explain myself before I knew she’d cheated. But now, I just want to get away from her. I head to the bathroom to shower. Autumn follows me step for step, and when I look at her—

I can’t shake her. She’s right behind me, shadowing my every move. I turn, meeting her eyes in the mirror. Her expression is unreadable—anger, hurt, something darker lurking underneath.

Her voice is ice cold. She gives a chilling smile. One word at a time, she says, “Miles Whitaker, I will never divorce you.”

With that, she climbs into bed. I don’t get it. I can’t understand why she’s suddenly changed her mind. Exhausted, I don’t think much more and go to sleep in the guest room.

Sleep won’t come. I toss and turn, the events of the night replaying in my mind. The guest room feels colder than usual, the sheets unfamiliar. I try to quiet my thoughts, but sleep is slow to come.

Great. Just great. Before I can fall asleep, someone climbs onto the bed. Autumn, barely covered by scraps of fabric, throws me a seductive look. “Get off!”

I shove the covers away. She’s bold, unashamed, her body draped across the bed like she owns it. I try to put distance between us.

She never gives up. She flashes a sultry smile. “Come on, don’t pretend. Don’t you like what you see? Even Ethan said—”

She realizes too late what she’s said. She lets the words hang, then bites her lip. I see the calculation in her eyes, the way she tries to turn every moment to her advantage.

I finish her thought for her. She catches herself and clamps her mouth shut. “Even Ethan said you’re irresistible, huh? Well, after tonight, you can let him see all he wants.”

She flinches, but I don’t care. My words are cold, final. I don’t back down. I’m done fighting for something that’s already broken.

I need to get out before I lose it. I get up and head for another room, afraid I’ll lose my temper if I stay with her any longer.

I want to slam the door. I don’t. My footsteps are heavy on the hardwood, echoing through the empty hallway. I settle for closing it quietly, holding onto the last shreds of my composure.

Her voice is weak, trembling. “Miles, my stomach hurts so bad…”

I think she’s faking. Her voice comes from behind me. I think she’s playing tricks and ignore her, but after a few steps, I hear her cry out in pain.

I turn, heart pounding. The sound is different this time—raw, desperate. She’s doubled over, clutching her stomach, real fear on her face.

Oh God. I turn and see a vivid patch of blood. I rush Autumn to the hospital.

I barely remember the drive. Time blurs as I scoop her up, racing down the stairs, fumbling for my keys. The drive to the ER is a nightmare—red lights, honking horns, my hands shaking on the wheel. I barely remember parking, just the panic in her eyes and the blood soaking through her dress.

Strangely, the doctor on duty knows her, and Autumn avoids his gaze. I push the thought aside and ask what’s wrong.

The waiting room smells of antiseptic and stale coffee. The doctor’s familiarity with Autumn nags at me, but I shove it aside as they wheel her away and she squeezes my hand.

I’m numb. After examining her, he sighs and tells me Autumn has had a miscarriage.

I can’t move. The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I stand there, numb, trying to make sense of what he’s saying. A miscarriage—how? When? My mind races, searching for answers.

How did this happen? I stand there, stunned. I can’t understand how she could have miscarried out of nowhere.

Did I miss something? I replay the past few weeks in my head—her moods, her complaints, the way she kept her distance. Did I miss something? Was there a sign I should have seen?

She sounds so small. “Miles, I feel awful. Stop talking to the doctor and come keep me company, okay?”

I say nothing. For once, Autumn acts sweet and vulnerable. I wait until she’s in the treatment room.

I watch as the nurses fuss over her, tucking blankets around her shoulders. She looks small, lost in the hospital bed. I step into the hallway, needing a moment to breathe, to process everything that’s happened.

I pause outside the door. I go out to buy what she needs, and when I come back, I catch her talking to the doctor.

Her words freeze me. She’s begging pitifully, “Doctor, can you please not tell my husband I’ve had an abortion here before?”

His voice is stern. The doctor is unmoved. “I told you last time, don’t do this again. If you keep having abortions, you’ll have trouble getting pregnant at all, and even if you do, there’s a high chance of miscarriage. But you didn’t listen, and now look—you’ve miscarried again.”

Three times? Autumn mumbles, “It hasn’t been that many times, just three.”

Just three times? Everything I’m holding—tissues, supplies—falls to the floor.

I feel foolish. The memories rush back—late-night talks about baby names, lazy Sundays imagining a future with little feet running down the hallway. I feel foolish for believing in those dreams, for thinking she wanted the same things I did.

I blink hard. My eyes sting.

Autumn hears the commotion and looks up, shocked. Seeing me move, she tries to get out of bed, calling after me. “Miles, don’t go, let me explain.”

She fumbles with the IV, nearly knocking over the tray table in her haste. I force myself to stand my ground, jaw clenched tight.

I want to hear her say it. I take a deep breath, walk over to her bed, and coldly say, “Explain.”

I see the insecurity. She tugs at my sleeve. “Miles, I love you. I don’t want a child to take away any of your love for me, and I don’t want you to split your love between me and a child.”

So it’s my fault now. I let out a bitter laugh. “So this is all my fault, huh?”

Her tears soak through my shirt. She wraps her arms around my waist, pressing her face to my chest. “Miles, I know I was wrong. I’ve changed my mind now. I didn’t plan to abort this child.”

Is it because this time, the baby isn’t mine? I push her away, disappointment washing over me as I look at the woman I’ve cherished for two years. “Is it because this time, the baby isn’t mine?”

She looks away. Her eyes widen, and she’s silent for a minute.

She raises her voice. Then she tries to take the offensive. “Miles Whitaker, how could you say that? I went through so much to get pregnant, and this is how you treat me?”

I see the nurses exchange glances. She sobs uncontrollably, making me look like the heartless one.

I lay out the timeline. I laugh coldly. “This baby’s two months along, right? I was on a business trip for a month, and the other month you made me sleep in a separate room because I was away too long. You’re saying the baby’s mine? Autumn, do you even think before you talk?”

The mood shifts. There are other people in the ward. Where a moment ago I was getting dirty looks, now everyone’s looking at me with sympathy.

They get it now. The shift is palpable. I see understanding in their eyes, a silent acknowledgment that maybe I’m not the monster she’s painted me to be.

I stare at her. Autumn isn’t fazed. “So what? I’m not really going to divorce you. We can still have a baby, and he can inherit Ethan Grant’s fortune. You know how rich he is.”

I never knew her. Her words shatter my worldview. It’s like I’m meeting her for the first time.

I feel empty. I realize I never really knew her—not the real her, the one behind the tears and tantrums. I feel a cold emptiness settle in my chest.

My voice is final, resolute. I turn to leave. “Let Ethan take care of you.” I pause. “Once you’re better, we’ll get divorced.”

I don’t look back. With that, I leave without a backward glance.

I keep walking. “Miles Whitaker, how can you treat me like this?” Her voice chases me down the hallway, shrill and desperate. I keep walking, refusing to let her pull me back in.

I hear her words, but they don’t touch me. Autumn screams after me. As I reach the door, I hear her bitterly ask, “Miles, don’t you love me anymore?”

She needs to hear this. I pause, hand on the door, and let the words settle. I want her to hear the truth, to know there’s nothing left.

I step into the hallway. “Not anymore.” The words are simple, but they carry the weight of everything we’ve lost.

Strange relief. Right then, you used up the last of my love.