No More Coming Back, Ex-Husband

I didn’t stay in the hospital. I couldn't. The sterile white walls felt like a cage, and the silence was too loud. I needed to see him. I needed to look George in the eye and see if the monster I heard in that hospital room was real.

I pulled my coat tighter around my bruised body, wincing as the fabric brushed against my stitches. The night air was biting, but it was nothing compared to the cold spreading in my chest.

When the taxi pulled up to the estate, my breath hitched.

Lights.

The entire house was ablaze with them. Cars lined the driveway—expensive, sleek cars that belonged to our "friends." Music drifted through the open windows, a lively jazz tune that clashed violently with the grief screaming inside me.

A party?

My baby was dead. I almost died weeks ago. And he was throwing a party?

I pushed open the heavy oak doors.

Laughter hit me like a physical blow. The foyer was filled with people holding champagne flutes, their faces flushed with excitement.

"Happy Birthday, George!" someone shouted from the living room.

His birthday. Of course.

I stepped further into the light, my hospital bracelet still on my wrist, my face pale and devoid of makeup.

The chatter died instantly.

One by one, heads turned. The music seemed to screech to a halt.

George was standing by the fireplace, a glass of scotch in one hand, his other arm draped possessively around Donna’s waist. She was wearing my favorite red dress.

When he saw me, the color drained from his face. His glass slipped from his fingers and shattered on the marble hearth.

"Eliza?" he choked out.

The silence was deafening.

"Surprised?" I asked, my voice hoarse but steady. I walked into the room, the crowd parting for me like I was a ghost.

"Eliza!" Donna gasped, her hand flying to her mouth in a performance worthy of an Oscar. "Oh my god! You’re… you’re here!"

"What are you doing here?" George hissed, stepping away from Donna, his eyes darting around the room at the confused guests.

"It’s my home, George," I said, stopping a few feet from him. "Can I not be at my own husband's birthday party?"

A murmur rippled through the crowd.

"My god, Eliza, you look terrible," Mrs. Vansant whispered, clutching her pearls. "We heard… we heard there was an accident."

"Is the baby okay?" someone else asked.

The question hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.

George’s jaw tightened. He looked at me with a warning in his eyes—a silent command to shut up and play the part.

"They told us you were in critical condition," George said loudly, forcing a strained smile. "That you might not make it. We were… we were just preparing for the worst."

"I’m very much alive," I said, locking eyes with him. "Miraculously."

Donna rushed forward, grabbing my hands. Her skin was warm, her perfume cloying. "Oh, thank god! We were so worried, Eliza! I’ve been crying all evening!"

I looked down at her hands, then back at her face. "You recovered quickly enough to put on my dress, Donna."

She froze, her smile faltering. "I… I didn’t have anything to wear… I rushed over when I heard…"

"Eliza," George cut in, his voice sharp. "You’re clearly in shock. You shouldn't be here. You need rest."

He grabbed my arm, his grip bruising, and steered me toward the stairs. "Excuse us, everyone. My wife needs to lie down."

He dragged me up the stairs and into the master bedroom, slamming the door behind us. The moment the latch clicked, his mask fell.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he snarled, turning on me. "You were supposed to be in the hospital!"

"And let me die?" I shot back.

He paused, just for a second, his eyes narrowing. "Die? Don't be dramatic. The doctors were taking care of you."

"Is that what you call it?" I laughed, a broken, hollow sound. "I heard you, George. I heard you tell them to finish me off."

"You were hallucinating from the anesthesia," he dismissed, waving his hand. "You’re hysterical. Look at you, barging in here, ruining my birthday, embarrassing me in front of the board!"

"Embarrassing you?" I screamed. "Our baby is dead, George! Our child!"

"And whose fault is that?" he shouted, stepping into my space.

I recoiled. "What?"

"If you hadn't been so clumsy, if you hadn't been standing so close to the edge, none of this would have happened!" He pointed a finger in my face. "Do you know what you've done? Grandfather is furious! That trust fund was contingent on an heir! Now I have to explain to him why his great-grandchild is dead because his mother couldn't keep her balance!"

I stared at him, my blood turning to ice.

"Is that all you care about?" I whispered. "The money?"

"It's not just money, Eliza! It's my legacy! It's the company!" He ran a hand through his hair, pacing the room. "I married you for this. I put up with you for this. And you failed. You had one job."

"One job," I repeated.

"Yes! To give me an heir!" He stopped and glared at me with pure contempt. "And now look at you. Broken. Useless. What good are you to me now?"

The pain in my chest was unbearable, but strangely, it cleared my head. The tears stopped. The shaking stopped.

I looked at the man I had loved for three years. The man I had defended to my family, to my friends. The man I had almost died for.

And I felt… nothing.

I smiled. It was a cold, sharp thing.

"You're right, George," I said softly.

He blinked, confused by my sudden calm. "What?"

"I'm barren. We lost the child. I'm useless to you now."

I pulled off my wedding ring. It felt heavy in my hand, a shackle I hadn't realized I was wearing.

"So divorce me," I said, dropping the ring onto the nightstand. "Right now."