Chapter 2

With that, I ignored the uproar erupting through the crowd, scooped up my fever-delirious son, and headed straight to the hospital.

The ER doctor gave Leo a fever-reducing shot and hooked him up to an IV. It wasn't until I saw the thermometer finally drop from 104.4°F to 101.3°F that the rigid knot in my back slightly loosened.

"Where's the boy's father?" the ER attending frowned, his gaze dropping to my wedding dress. "His high fever has triggered mild acute pneumonia. You're really here all by yourself at a time like this?"

"He's dead," I answered, my voice deadpan.

The doctor froze for a second. A flash of profound sympathy crossed his eyes, and he didn't press the matter further.

Sitting by the hospital bed, watching Leo fall into a deep, medicine-induced sleep, memories of the past five years began flashing uncontrollably through my mind.

For Leo's fourth birthday last year, I booked a Disney suite. An hour before our flight, Sloane called, crying hysterically because her cat went missing. Declan dropped his suitcase by the door and told a wide-eyed, expectant Leo, "Aunt Sloane needs help. Dad will take you next year."

The year before that, on our wedding anniversary, Sloane got into a bar fight while drunk. Declan abandoned me at the restaurant to bail her out, leaving me waiting alone all night.

Nine delayed weddings. Countless broken family promises.

On the hospital bed, Leo suddenly flinched in his sleep. His cracked, feverish lips trembled as a weak whimper slipped out.

"Daddy... it doesn't hurt anymore... I can be a big boy..."

"Daddy, please don't go..."

Every raspy murmur was like a rusted saw, ripping fresh, bloody gashes into my already battered heart.

I clenched my jaw tight, but a single tear still broke free, shattering against the back of Leo's tiny hand.

Then, my phone lit up. An Instagram notification.

Sloane had just posted a new update.

The photo featured a massive bouquet of vibrant red roses, set against the backdrop of a luxury hotel's rooftop skyline. Casually peeking into the corner of the frame was a man's hand. On that wrist sat the Patek Philippe watch I had bought Declan with three months of my salary.

The caption read: "Some people can wear the most expensive wedding dress and still not secure their place. The one who truly loves you will cross half the city just to catch your tears."

Beneath it was a flood of likes and comments from their mutual friends.

"Omg, Declan ditched his wedding for you again? Now that is true love!"

"That Imogen woman is probably crying her eyes out at the altar right now. Tragic."

"You can't keep what you stole in the first place. You're the only one in his heart, Sloane."

Staring at those words, I suddenly laughed. There was no anger. No jealousy. Just a profound, liberating sense of pure absurdity.

I hit the "Like" button.

Then, I dialed a moving company.

"Hi, I need a truck. Yes, right now."

By 2:00 AM, Leo's fever had broken. I left my assistant, Jane, at the hospital to watch over him while I headed back to the house alone.

The movers were fast.

The sofa, the coffee table, Leo's favorite dinosaur bookshelf, the rug I had hand-picked, my everyday bone china set from the kitchen... every single trace of Leo and me was carried out of that house piece by piece.

Soon, all that remained were the faint imprints of our family portraits on the walls, and a half-empty walk-in closet holding nothing but Declan's solitary suits.

In the dead silence, my phone began vibrating frantically.

It was Declan.

The moment I answered, his barely contained rage exploded through the speaker. "Imogen, what the hell are you doing hiring movers in the middle of the night?! The security system sent an alert straight to my phone! There has to be a limit to your little tantrums!"

From his end of the line came Sloane's slightly intoxicated, mocking giggle.

"I thought Leo was supposed to be deathly ill. How does she have the energy to orchestrate a whole move right now? It's almost like she's staging a cheap play with movers just to force you to go back to her."

Declan had clearly bought right into Sloane's sneer. He muffled the receiver and gently cooed, "Be good, you're drunk. Go get some sleep first." When he spoke to me again, his voice was ice-cold and dripping with exhaustion.

"Lying about Leo being sick, pulling this moving stunt at 2 AM—do you think this is funny?"

"Sloane is unstable right now; anything could happen. I can't just leave her alone at a hotel. Now, send those workers away immediately! Sinking to the level of using our kid as a bargaining chip... don't you find yourself pathetic?"

Sloane chimed in again. "Declan, she just doesn't know how to care for you. But hey, Imogen, since you won't be needing that custom gown anymore, why don't you give it to me? After all, even when you're the one wearing it, I'm the one he truly wants to be with."

Hearing such a blatant, insulting provocation, Declan didn't do a single thing to stop her.

Instead, he issued his ultimatum in a tone of undisputed charity:

"Imogen, enough of this nonsense. Stop blowing things out of proportion. I'll be home first thing in the morning, and we can discuss setting a new date for the wedding."

"If Sloane is so desperate for that dress, she can have it. And you won't need to book another date." Before he could even process the words, I hung up.

I pulled out the divorce papers that had been sitting in my drawer for six months.

I had my lawyer draft them the ninth time Declan canceled our wedding. Back then, I was still clinging to one final, foolish sliver of hope.

Now, they were finally being put to use.

I didn't want a single dime. I only wanted full custody of Leo.

I signed my name.

Finally, I slipped the diamond ring off my left hand—the ring with which he had proposed nine times, only to delay our wedding nine times.