"Draft a divorce agreement for me."
Then, with a deep breath, I booked a flight. Three days from now, I would leave—disappearing to the other side of the world.
That evening, we had dinner at a high-end restaurant, a place we had dined at countless times before. Tristan played his usual role—the doting husband. He poured water for me, peeled shrimp with practiced ease, and even wiped the corners of my mouth with a napkin. He was so attentive, so consumed with caring for me, that he barely touched his own food.
In the past, this devotion had made my heart ache for him. After a long day of work, he would still focus all his energy on me, doing everything he could to make me comfortable. Especially after I became pregnant, it was as if my only responsibility was to exist—he took care of the rest.
I used to think it was love.
But now, I know better.
Everything he did—every tender gesture, every whispered promise—was never about me. It was about my child.
Because to him, I was nothing more than a vessel.
And my child’s umbilical cord blood was the only thing that truly mattered.
That should have been the end of it.