Divorce After Wedding Woes

I stared at my phone, the blue light illuminating my tear-stained face in the darkness of our bedroom—no, my bedroom. The room Beckett hadn't slept in for weeks. My thumb scrolled mechanically through his Instagram stories, each new image like a knife twisting deeper into my chest.

Beckett and Emmy at the Obsidian nightclub. Beckett and Emmy sharing a cocktail. Beckett and Emmy dancing, his hands possessively on her hips, her back pressed against his chest, her head thrown back in ecstasy.

The caption under the latest post read: "Finally free to love who I want." The timestamp showed 11:47 PM—exactly six months to the day since I'd lost our baby. Since I'd lost everything.

My fingers clutched the edge of the comforter as I watched him kiss her, deep and passionate, in a video that had already garnered dozens of congratulatory comments. Victoria Richards, my mother-in-law, had even left a heart emoji. The ultimate approval.

I switched off my phone and laid it face-down on the nightstand, where a framed photo of our wedding day still stood. I'd kept it there out of some misguided hope that Beckett would remember the promises he'd made that day, that he would believe me about our child. But tonight, watching him celebrate the anniversary of my greatest loss with the woman who had orchestrated my humiliation, something finally broke free inside me.

I was done waiting for him to remember he had a wife.

* * *

"Rose Ward? I'm sorry, but Mr. Wells is in a meeting right now." The receptionist at the Richards Family Foundation looked at me with barely concealed pity. Everyone knew the story by now—or at least Emmy's version of it.

"Please," I whispered, my voice hoarse from disuse. "Tell him it's about the Sunshine Orphanage project. He'll understand."

The orphanage had been my parents' passion project before they died, the place where Marcel had grown up. It was our connection, the one thing I knew would bring him running.

Ten minutes later, Marcel burst through the door of the waiting room, his tall frame rigid with concern. He stopped when he saw me, his dark eyes widening at my appearance.

"Rose?" He approached slowly, as if I might shatter. "My God, what's happened to you?"

I tried to smile, but my lips trembled too much to form the shape. "I need your help," I managed, before my voice gave out completely.

He was beside me in an instant, his arm around my shoulders, solid and warm. "When did you last eat?" he asked, his voice gentle but firm.

I couldn't remember. Days blurred together in the empty house where I drifted like a ghost while Beckett lived his real life with Emmy. Where he brought her to family dinners, introducing her as his "real partner" while Victoria nodded approvingly and I picked at my food in silence.

"Let's get you out of here," Marcel said, guiding me toward the exit. "My flight from London just landed three hours ago, but I'm here now. Whatever you need, I'm here."

I leaned into his strength, too exhausted to pretend anymore. "They think I lied about the baby," I whispered. "Beckett, his family, everyone. Emmy convinced them I made it all up to trap him."

Marcel's body stiffened beside mine. "And what does your doctor say?"

"I haven't... I couldn't..." The words stuck in my throat. After that day in the hospital, I hadn't been able to face another doctor, another clinical room where my grief might be dissected and dismissed.

"First thing tomorrow," Marcel said, his voice brooking no argument, "we're getting you proper medical care. And then we're getting you a proper divorce lawyer."

* * *

The private clinic Marcel took me to the next morning was discreet, expensive, and thorough. Dr. Patel reviewed my medical history with careful precision before conducting her own examination.

"Mrs. Richards," she said afterward, her kind eyes meeting mine directly, "I can confirm without any doubt that you experienced a miscarriage approximately six months ago. The physical evidence is clear."

Something inside me crumpled at her words—validation of the loss I'd been told was a lie, the grief I'd been forced to question. Marcel's hand found mine, squeezing gently as tears slid down my cheeks.

"I'm also concerned about these blood test results," Dr. Patel continued, frowning at her tablet. "The vitamin levels show unusual fluctuations consistent with tampering or substitution of your prenatal supplements."

Marcel's grip tightened. "Tampering?"

"It's impossible to prove conclusively at this point," Dr. Patel said carefully, "but these patterns are consistent with someone replacing standard prenatal vitamins with something else—possibly just sugar pills, possibly something worse."

Emmy's face flashed in my mind—her constant presence in our home during those early weeks, her insistence on organizing my medications "to help."

"I'd like complete copies of all Mrs. Richards' medical records," Marcel said, his voice controlled but cold. "And a detailed report on these findings, signed and notarized."

Dr. Patel nodded. "Of course. I assume this is for divorce proceedings?"

"Yes," I said, my voice stronger than it had been in months. "It is."