From Betrayal to Baby

I stared at the divorce papers Cassian had slammed onto the mahogany desk between us, the crisp white sheets seeming to glow against the dark wood. The study had once been our shared sanctuary, filled with quiet evenings and whispered dreams. Now it felt like a courtroom, with my husband as both judge and executioner.

"Sign them," Cassian said, his voice as cold as I'd ever heard it. His blue eyes, once warm with love, now regarded me with detached impatience. "Our marriage was a mistake, Sage. I think we both know that."

My fingers trembled as I picked up the fountain pen—a fifth anniversary gift I'd given him just two years ago. "Is this because of the Lane sisters?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.

He didn't even have the decency to look ashamed. "Rosalie and Aurelia understand me in ways you never could." He ran his hand through his perfectly styled dark hair, a gesture that once made my heart flutter. "I never truly loved you the way I love them."

Each word was a precise cut, designed to slice through whatever remaining hope I might have harbored. Seven years of marriage, reduced to an inconvenience he needed to clear away.

"Both of them?" I whispered, the pen hovering above the signature line. "You're leaving me for both sisters?"

Cassian's lips curled into a smile that never reached his eyes. "They complement each other. Rosalie has the passion, Aurelia the intellect. Together, they're everything I've been missing."

I felt something inside me crack—not my heart, which had been breaking slowly for years with each of his affairs and dismissals—but my patience, my willingness to endure. As I signed my name on each flagged page, I made a silent vow: I would never forgive Cassian Crawford again.

"There," I said, sliding the papers back across the desk. "You're free."

He gathered them without checking my signatures—such was his hurry to be rid of me. "The lawyers will handle everything else. You can stay here until the paperwork is finalized."

His generosity was as hollow as his vows had been. I nodded, not trusting myself to speak as he strode from the room without a backward glance.

* * *

Two weeks later, I was gasping for breath on a busy Seattle street corner, my lungs constricting as if being crushed in a vise. My asthma attacks had been rare in recent years, but stress had always been a trigger. And what greater stress than watching your life disintegrate?

Panicked pedestrians swarmed around me as I fumbled for my inhaler, finding my purse empty. With trembling fingers, I called Cassian—technically still my husband for another week.

"What is it, Sage?" His irritation crackled through the phone.

"Can't... breathe," I wheezed. "Asthma attack... forgot inhaler... near Pike Place..."

To my surprise, his tone changed instantly. "Stay there. I'm ten minutes away."

I slumped against a storefront, each breath a desperate struggle. Black spots danced at the edges of my vision as minutes crawled by. Then Cassian's sleek black Aston Martin screeched to a halt at the curb.

"Sage!" He was suddenly beside me, inhaler in hand, his face a mask of concern that almost made me believe he still cared.

I took two desperate puffs, feeling the medication begin to open my airways. Cassian's arm supported my back as my breathing slowly normalized.

"We should get you to a hospital," he said, helping me toward his car.

That's when his phone rang. The ringtone—Chopin's Nocturne in E-flat major—told me it was Rosalie before he even checked the screen.

"I need to take this," he said, already answering. "Rosie? What's wrong?"

I watched his face transform as he listened, concern deepening to alarm. "You're bleeding? A broken nail? Don't worry, sweetheart, I'm coming right now."

He turned to me, already backing toward his car. "Sage, I have to go. Rosalie's hurt herself. Can you... can you call a taxi?"

I stared at him in disbelief, still wheezing slightly. "Cassian, I can't breathe."

"Rosie's bleeding," he repeated, as if that explained everything. "You seem better now. I'll call you later."

Before I could respond, he was in his car, pulling away from the curb with a squeal of tires, leaving me alone and gasping on the sidewalk as he sped toward a woman with a broken nail.

* * *

The hospital's fluorescent lights cast a harsh glow over everything as I sat in the waiting room, still feeling the aftermath of my attack. A kind stranger had driven me here after finding me struggling to breathe on that street corner.

I was waiting for discharge papers when I heard his voice—Cassian's distinctive laugh echoing from the lobby. Rising shakily, I followed the sound, drawn by some masochistic need to confirm what I already knew.

There they stood by the reception desk, lost in their own world. Cassian held Rosalie Lane's hand tenderly, her index finger wrapped in a tiny bandage that seemed absurdly small given the urgency with which he'd abandoned me. Her perfect features were arranged in an expression of exaggerated pain as Cassian bent to place a gentle kiss on her injured finger.

"There," he murmured, loud enough for me to hear. "All better."

Rosalie's eyes flicked up and met mine over Cassian's shoulder. A slow, triumphant smile spread across her flawless face as she wrapped her arms around my husband's neck, pulling him into a passionate kiss that he returned with enthusiasm.

I stood frozen, invisible to the man who had once promised to love me in sickness and in health, watching as he poured all his tenderness into a woman whose paper cut had mattered more than my ability to breathe.