I Divorced My Sister's Boyfriend

I wasn’t sure if Lucas would tell him anything. After all, he was only Ryan’s assistant.

Three days later, the doctor released me from the hospital with a pile of prescriptions and instructions to come in for regular check-ups. The painkillers gave me just enough strength to make it home by taxi, though my body felt fragile and hollow.

I was carrying a large stack of medication and before I even entered the door, I heard the sounds of playful banter coming from the villa.

A woman’s delicate, coquettish voice floated out. “Ryan, I don’t want to eat this.”

A man’s gentle reply followed. “Good girl, you just got out of the hospital. This is what I've made with my own hands—just eat a little, okay?”

Then came the clatter of chopsticks hitting the floor.

I quickly stepped over, grabbed the chopsticks from Ryan’s hand and hurled them to the ground with all the strength I could muster. My chest heaved as I fought to stay upright.

“Emma… why did you come back?” Chloe’s wide eyes blinked at me in surprise.

Ryan’s expression turned cold in an instant.

“This is my wife and your sister’s house. Why wouldn’t she come back?” he said icily. Then, he came to my side without hesitation and gently guided me to sit down.

I ignored him, raising my hand to point toward the door. “Get out,” I said, my voice hoarse but firm.

Perhaps it was my face's paleness or my voice's weariness, but Ryan waved his hand, signaling her to leave.

“Lucas, take Chloe home,” he ordered calmly.

Only then did I notice Lucas standing quietly in the corner, blending into the background. It seemed he hadn’t told Ryan anything about me—about the hospital or the cancer.

When they were gone, I struggled to pick up the medicine scattered on the floor. I could feel Ryan’s gaze locked on me.

He stepped closer, concern lacing his voice. “What is that?”

I clutched the medicine tightly and turned away from him. “It’s nothing. I had a bit of a cold, so I went to get some medicine.”

He gave a slight nod, not questioning me further—not asking where I had been these past few days or whether I had eaten.

A wave of exhaustion washed over me, pulling me down like an anchor. I couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“Let’s get a divorce,” I whispered.

His head snapped up, disbelief written all over his face. “What did you say?”

I didn’t even look at him, my voice steady and emotionless. “I said, let’s get a divorce.”

He looked at me as if I had told him a bad joke. “Stop this nonsense, Emma.”

Ignoring my words, he pulled me toward the dining table and ladled a bowl of soup, carefully setting it in front of me. “You have a cold. Your body is weak and you’ve lost so much weight. Eat something.”

I glanced at the bowl, feeling nothing but nausea. Bitterness bubbled up inside me and I couldn’t stop the sarcasm from spilling out.

“This was for Chloe, wasn’t it? I doubt I am even worthy of eating it.”

His face, which was just wearing a smile, darkened, a little impatient. “Are you jealous?”

His voice grew stern. “Nothing is going on between me and Chloe. I only take care of her like a little sister. She is still young—you know that. Can’t you understand?”

I scoffed silently. Ryan had a real sister who had been living independently overseas for seven years. She was also still young. And yet, he never treated her like he doted on Chloe.

There were so many things I wanted to say and so many ways I wanted to fight back. But I was too tired. I didn't want to tangle with him any further. I picked up the medicine bag and headed upstairs without another word.

As I reached my room, a loud crash echoed from a place not far from the door—the sound of a car accident. Seconds later, Ryan’s phone rang, sharp and urgent.

“What? A car accident?” His voice tensed. “Is Chloe okay? I’m on my way.”

The front door slammed shut, the heavy thud ringing out like the final blow to my heart.

I sank to the floor, pressing my back against the wall. My knees came up to my chest and I buried my face in them as the familiar feeling of vomiting returned.

Suddenly, a memory surfaced—a moment from three years ago. It suddenly occurred to me when I had woken up one morning feeling queasy, stumbling toward the bathroom to wash up. Still groggy from sleep, Ryan rushed over to me, his eyes bright with excitement.

“Are you pregnant?” he asked eagerly, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the door. “Let’s go to the hospital!”

But the doctor’s diagnosis was simple: I wasn’t pregnant. I was just unwell.

I would never forget the way Ryan’s joy evaporated, replaced by a flicker of disappointment in his eyes. At that moment, I should have realized something: I was never the one who mattered most to him.

It wasn’t my health or well-being he cared about. It was the child I didn’t have.