The Cost of His Perfect Wife

Blood. So much blood.

Consciousness frayed, and in the growing haze, I felt my life spilling out of me. I felt my child being washed away in the crimson tide.

The doctor came too late.

I had hemorrhaged. I had miscarried.

The doctor's verdict was even crueler: carrying another child to term would be nearly impossible.

For two whole weeks, I drifted in a stupor.

In my lucid moments, I heard the maids whispering outside on the terrace.

"The master sent Miss Vance to Europe overnight..."

"To that gorgeous place in Switzerland. Didn't want her to be 'inconvenienced' in the slightest."

"It was bound to happen, wasn't it? Ten years. Did they really think no one knew?"

"Ever since that charity gala ten years ago, Miss Vance has had him wrapped around her little finger. At first, he was hesitant because she's his stepsister in name, but then..."

"Then, they were at it almost every time the missus was away on business. All the servants knew. Only the missus was kept in the dark."

Ten years.

A full decade.

I cried until my body ached and my tears ran dry, soaking the pillow.

When I regained some strength, I went to a secluded corner by the sea cliff and planted a small Japanese maple tree.

It was the only grave my lost child would ever have.

Then I went to confront Julian.

"I want a divorce," I said, my voice eerily calm. "And I'm taking Caleb with me."

"Mother!" Caleb rushed in, his face a mask of disbelief. "What are you talking about?"

"It's normal for a man with Dad's status to have women on the side," he blurted out, each word a dagger in my heart. "And Chloe's always been nice to me! She grew up here, of course she doesn't want to leave! Why are you making such a big deal out of this, Mom? It’s not like your position is threatened."

I froze.

I couldn't believe these words were coming from my eighteen-year-old son.

"Caleb! Do not be disrespectful to your mother!" Julian feigned a scolding. Then he turned to me. "Claire, a divorce is out of the question."

My voice trembled. "Caleb... you knew. About your father and Chloe. You've known all along, haven't you?"

Caleb fell silent.

But his silence was all the confirmation I needed.

Even my own son had chosen their side.

That night, I flew back to my father's home on the East Coast.

From then on, I was no longer the brilliant architect I once was.

I became silent, withdrawn. I would sit on the beach for an entire afternoon in winter, letting the biting wind chill me to the bone.

Pneumonia.

Then, pulmonary fibrosis.

The day the doctor confirmed my diagnosis, my father held me and sobbed.

"Claire, my poor daughter. You've suffered too much."

It wasn't until news came that Julian's madness was threatening the stability of the corporation that I agreed to return.

I was dying anyway.

This was the last thing I could do for my father.

The memory shattered, leaving me back in the cold present.

Chloe was standing on the balcony of the master bedroom. It used to be my master bedroom.

I had been moved to the desolate coastal lighthouse cottage.

She saw me passing below and called out, "Throw whatever tantrum you want, Claire. Julian and I grew up together. He will always choose me."

She stroked the Cartier bracelet on her wrist. A deliberate taunt.

That was supposed to be mine.

A wedding anniversary gift from Julian.

Nausea churned in my stomach, but my expression remained a placid, unreadable mask.

I ignored her and continued walking.

"Claire!" Julian's voice cracked behind me.

I stopped.

He came up to me, pointing to the recently emptied cloud album on my phone and the rare edition books I had sold.

"Why did you delete all this?" he demanded, his voice laced with pain. "These are our memories!"

I turned to face him, my eyes empty.

"Mr. Thorne," my voice was glacial. "Some memories are a burden. Far too heavy to carry."