Four Loveless Years, One Unforgettable Goodbye

The bedroom lights glowed faintly, throwing long shadows across the room. On the plush bed, Willa Fletcher's wrists were pinned above her head, her breath hitching with pain.

A tremor ran through her as her husband, Bryan Scott, thrust into her.

Desperate, she lifted her arms and wrapped them around his neck, wordlessly begging him to be gentle.

Through the haze of tears, she saw his expression remain cold and unyielding, offering not even a flicker of softness.

When it was finally over, Willa lay drained and motionless, her body limp as a discarded doll. Sleep claimed her before she could even think about cleaning up.

By morning, she woke to find the other side of the bed empty. Alyssa Higgins, the housekeeper, informed her that Bryan had already left.

Catching sight of the dark bruises marring Willa's skin, Alyssa's face twisted with distress. "Mr. Scott should have been gentle with you," she muttered.

Without waiting for an answer, she darted off to fetch some ointment.

Left alone, Willa stood motionless, her gaze drifting over the dark marks that trailed across her arms. A sharp ache coiled in her chest, bitterness welling up until it choked her.

The night before replayed in her mind. She had visited Bryan's grandfather, Cody Scott, at the Scott Mansion. A servant had handed her a glass of water, and a sudden, unnatural heat had surged through her veins soon after.

On the drive back, the chauffeur had veered off the main road, steering into a shadowed stretch of empty lanes.

Panic had clawed at her as she fired off a message to Bryan—only to receive silence in return.

If the crash had not jolted the car to a stop, she might have ended up spending the night with another man. Her reputation would have been ruined beyond repair, leaving a permanent stain on the Scott family's name.

When she finally stumbled back to the villa, drained and trembling, Bryan sat at his desk, calmly immersed in an online meeting. He didn't even glance in her direction.

For four years of marriage, he showed no concern for her. He didn't bother asking why she was home late.

Something inside her fractured. Stripped of restraint, she let her clothes fall away and pressed herself against him, her trembling fingers circling his neck in a desperate attempt to reclaim his attention. The change in her was startling—wild, feverish, driven by something that wasn't entirely her own will.

Bryan's reaction was swift. With a flicker of irritation and desire, he ended the call and caught her by the waist, sending papers fluttering as he pushed her down on the desk.

Their bodies tangled through the night in a blur of heat and pain, but when dawn broke, he was gone.

Willa suspected the glass of water she'd accepted at Scott Mansion had been laced with an aphrodisiac—a plot to create a scandal and get her kicked out of the Scott family.

Her marriage to Bryan was never about love. Years ago, her grandfather, Martin Fletcher, had rescued Cody from a dire predicament. In gratitude, the Scott family had repaid that favor by binding her to Bryan through marriage.

Aside from Cody, not a single member of the Scott family had ever treated her with genuine warmth.

She wasn't some gullible fool—what happened at Scott Mansion couldn't have taken place without Bryan's silent approval.

After that day, he'd vanished on a month-long business trip, leaving no word behind.

When his name finally resurfaced, it wasn't through a message but a headline. The entertainment news was abuzz.

Bryan was in another city, orchestrating a dazzling fireworks display with drones—for another woman.

Though the footage was grainy, Willa knew that silhouette at once. The woman was Caylee Wall—Bryan's rumored ex-girlfriend and the sister of a Scott family bodyguard.

A wave of bitter irony swept through Willa as she stared at the screen. The tenderness she'd yearned for over four long years now belonged to another woman.

Her stomach twisted, the nausea from heartbreak mingling with a deeper ache that made her head spin. Feeling faint and uneasy, she decided to go to the hospital.

…

"Mrs. Scott, you're pregnant—around four weeks," the doctor announced.

Willa went still, her gaze fixed on the report lying starkly on the table. Disbelief hollowed her chest.

"That's impossible," she whispered, her voice trembling.

She and Bryan had been married four years, yet they'd only shared a bed once—and he'd been careful, using condoms.

The doctor glanced up, then gestured to the results. "The report is accurate. But your blood sugar levels are dangerously low—you'll need to take better care of yourself."

Willa's pulse pounded wildly. It wasn't until she found herself standing amid the hospital's noisy lobby that the memory struck her—Bryan had been too rough that night, and she vaguely recalled that one of the condoms had torn.

Her fingers tightened around the report, the paper crinkling in her grasp as she dialed his number.

When the call finally connected, his detached voice came through the line—cold, distant. But then, from across the hall, she caught sight of him.

Tall and poised, Bryan wore a mask that hid half his face, his piercing eyes uncharacteristically soft as he spoke into his phone and turned to the woman beside him.

Caylee's bare face glowed with unguarded joy, her sweetness disarming in its simplicity. Even the loose dress she wore couldn't hide the gentle curve of her belly—three, maybe four months along.

The sight struck Willa like a bolt of lightning. Her body went cold, her fingers trembling around the medical report she still clutched.

A brutal sting tore through Willa's chest, stealing her breath.

From the other end of the line came Bryan's impatient voice. "Say what you need to."

Her mind reeled, chaos pressing in, but she forced the words out anyway. "Where are you?"

His reply carried that same detached indifference, as though even answering her were an inconvenience. "I'm busy. Just get to the point."

Watching him escort Caylee toward the obstetrics department, Willa finally understood—holding on to this loveless marriage was pointless. She refused to be the wreckage left behind in another woman's fairy tale.

"Come home," she said evenly, her tone stripped of emotion. "We need to talk."