He Tore Me Apart, Now It’s His Turn to Break

Hailey's POV

"Why are you apologizing to us?" The doctor asked in concern.

The nurse beside him glanced at him before chiming in, "The one you should be apologizing to is yourself, Mrs. Wilder. If you don't take care of your body, your uterus might not recover."

I froze.

Their words dropped like stones in my chest. For a moment, I couldn't breathe.

And then, I remembered something.

"Who… brought me to the hospital?" I asked.

"The man who said he was your husband," the nurse answered. "We scolded him pretty hard for what happened."

My throat tightened. I bit down on the inside of my cheek to hold back the emotions clawing their way up.

The door creaked open, and I instinctively braced myself, half-expecting Caden's shadow to fill the room.

But it wasn't him.

It was someone I hadn't seen in a decade—Killian Maxwell, my stepbrother.

I blinked in disbelief. "Killian, brother, it's been so long. What are you doing back in the country?"

He stepped in casually, hands in his pockets, as if he hadn't just walked in on my disaster of a life.

"I'm here for an international conference," Killian said. "Didn't expect to see you. I was on my way to the winery."

That was it. The car I saw through the snow—it had been his.

He walked over to me and gently placed a warm hand on my head. The comfort of his touch made my throat ache even more.

"If you're tired," he said softly, "come back with me. Mom's gone. You don't have to stay here—don't stay with someone you don't love to avoid me. I told you before. I'll always be here for you."

I stared at my blanket, unable to look him in the eye. "I chose Caden… because I loved him."

Killian exhaled, a sigh laced with both pain and patience.

Then he reached into his coat and pulled out a plane ticket, placing it carefully on my bedside table.

"It doesn't expire. Any time, take this to the airport, and a private jet will take you to me. Save my number. If you ever need me, just call."

And then he turned and walked out without asking for anything in return.

I stared at the ticket for a long moment. My fingers curled around it and then slowly let it fall back to the table.

I didn't know what I was holding onto anymore.

Pride? Grief? Habit?

After he left, I pulled out my phone.

My hands trembled as I booked the first available flight. Then I dialed the number for the legal office in Holland, the one that had processed our marriage certificate.

The woman who answered sounded cold and clinical. "If you're requesting a unilateral divorce, you'll lose all your assets to your husband. You'll also face up to one year in prison for breach of contract. I suggest you think carefully."

I didn't hesitate. "This marriage is already a prison. I'll give up everything. I just want out."

There was a pause. Then her voice returned, "One week from now, your marriage will be dissolved."

I hung up, the silence around me as sharp as broken glass.

A notification pinged on my phone.

An anonymous message. There were no words, just a series of screenshots.

They were all from Veronica's social media.

The timeline began the night I collapsed in the snow.

Post after post—more than ten in total—documented their tropical vacation.

The first showed Caden and Veronica on a beach, their fingers intertwined, silhouetted against the sunset.

Another had them cut a cake together, and the gender reveal caught mid-slice—blue frosting.

In the comments, people were starting to notice:

[Caden Wilder is still married. What is Veronica doing flaunting her position like this?]

Veronica didn't reply.

But Caden did:

[The one who isn't loved is the mistress.]

That line hit harder than anything else.

It didn't matter that it wasn't true. It didn't matter that I had been his wife in every legal and emotional sense.

All that mattered was that I'd been erased, and he wanted the world to know.

I stared at the screen until my vision blurred.

My heart ached dully, despair crested, and I could only smile weakly.

...

That afternoon, I checked myself out of the hospital without waiting for permission.

While they were away playing house on some tropical island, I went home to pack my things.

The moment I opened the front door, I gagged.

The smell hit me like a wall—musty, rotting. And scattered across the floor were dozens of tiny plastic Smurf figurines.

Some were broken. Some had bite marks. All of them seemed to leer at me.

I forced myself to move upstairs.

The master bedroom was gone.

In its place: a nursery.

The walls were plastered with photos—Veronica grinning, her pregnant belly cradled by Caden's hands—pictures of him kissing her forehead, painting the baby's room, holding up tiny clothes.

Every inch of space that once belonged to me had been overwritten.

My closet? Empty.

My things? Gone.

They were all in the backyard, buried beneath trash and rainwater.

Then, I found our wedding photo.

Our once-treasured photo, which used to hang above our bed, now lies discarded amongst the filth.