Even three years ago, after my miscarriage, when my body was weak, he still told them to keep me on exhausting late-night laboratory work year after year.
I sat before the computer, drained and hollow, rereading the chat over and over.
By the time Gerald returned, his face was weary and tense.
He checked several rooms before Wilma told him I was in the study.
The moment he opened the door and saw the laptop—and my lifeless expression—his face tightened with a sudden alarm.
He rushed to me, half-kneeling as he grabbed my hands.
His eyes were bloodshot. He must have spent the whole night comforting Stella.
"Wilma said you haven't eaten since yesterday. Can you eat something? Please?"
He spoke as if nothing had happened. As if we were still the same couple.
But now, his voice only made my stomach twist in revulsion.
I pulled my hands away from his grip.
My voice was icy calm. "Let's divorce. I can see clearly now—you love her. You even have a child already."
"I love you too. Stop it. I am not divorcing you." He cut me off suddenly, expression turning serious.
I stared at him, unable to understand this man anymore.
My gaze toward him grew more and more filled with contempt.