"I have meetings all afternoon," he continued coldly. "I'll check on you tomorrow."
Tomorrow came and went. Then another day passed. And another.
Alexander never returned to the hospital.
Instead, through our mutual friends' social media feeds, I watched his life unfold without me. Video clips of Alexander escorting Victoria to her prenatal yoga classes. Photos of them shopping for nursery furniture at exclusive boutiques.
The worst was the live stream of him at a charity gala, his hand possessively curved around Victoria's waist as he proudly announced to the crowd, "My child will be born in five months. The Pierce legacy continues!"
Not once did he mention that he already had a wife.
On my discharge day, after signing my own papers and refusing the wheelchair offered by a nurse, I checked my phone one last time before leaving.
Alexander had posted a professional photoshoot on his social media: Victoria in a flowing white gown, her baby bump prominently displayed, while he knelt before her, pressing his lips to her stomach. The caption read: "The beginning of my real family."
With trembling fingers, I typed a comment:
[Congratulations. May your child grow up knowing true love.]