The Runaway Astrophysicist And Her Secret

Corinne Preston POV:

My finger hovered over the 'Send' button of the email to Dr. Perkins, confirming my flight details. My stomach churned, a familiar wave of nausea washing over me. I pressed my other hand to my belly, a silent prayer for the tiny life growing inside me. The last thing I needed was to be held back now.

A soft chime from my phone startled me. It was Arlo' s assistant. Mr. Hatfield is requesting your presence for dinner tonight. He'll pick you up at 7. No questions, just a command. Always a command.

I stared at the message, a bitter smile twisting my lips. He didn' t even bother to call himself. Still, the hospital scene from yesterday replayed in my mind. The tenderness in his voice for Brielle, the dismissive wave of his hand towards me. What did he want now?

I found Arlo in the drawing-room, casually sipping a whiskey. He looked relaxed, almost serene. Brielle, thank God, was nowhere in sight. Seeing him, a familiar knot of tension tightened in my chest, a physiological response to his presence that I despised. My body, stupid and betraying, remembered all the nights he' d held me, even without love. I quickly averted my gaze, forcing my breathing to remain even. I had to be strong. For my child. For myself.

The phantom ache in my belly intensified. Was it fear? Or just the unrelenting nausea of early pregnancy? He hadn't noticed at the hospital, too consumed by Brielle's fabricated drama. He wouldn't notice now. Couldn't.

"Corinne," he said, his voice surprisingly soft. He gestured to the empty chair opposite him. "Dinner. My treat."

A chill ran through me. Dinner? Our last "dinner" had been our anniversary, a night he spent with Brielle while I waited alone. The irony was a cold stab.

"Where are we going?" I asked, my voice flat.

"My favorite Italian place downtown," he replied. "I thought we could talk."

My mind immediately flashed to the upscale, discreet restaurant where we' d had so many perfunctory business dinners disguised as romantic outings. Where we sat, two strangers, discussing market trends more often than our lives.

"Okay," I heard myself say, the word a soft surrender. My automatic compliance, ingrained over years of marriage, was still a reflex I couldn't entirely control. Damn it, Corinne, I silently chastised myself. You' re better than this.

But perhaps this was an opportunity. A chance to gauge his intentions, to ensure my escape route was clear. I would play the part of the compliant wife one last time. I would keep my secret safe. I would finalize my legal separation from his world, and then I would be gone. Two more days. That was all it took.

The restaurant was as exclusive and impersonal as I remembered. Arlo had booked a private dining room, a plush, velvet-lined box designed for intimate conversations that were rarely intimate. The air was heavy with the scent of truffles and old money.

He stood as I entered, pulling out my chair with a practiced courtesy. He reached out, his hand briefly touching the small of my back as I sat down. The touch, brief as it was, still sent a shiver through me. My body still remembered the phantom intimacy, even if my heart no longer did.

"Corinne," he began, his voice low, leaning forward slightly. "We need to talk about us."

Before he could continue, a sudden, jarring clang echoed from the main dining area. A flurry of hushed whispers. Then, Arlo' s personal aide, Mark, burst into our private room, his face pale and etched with urgency.

"Mr. Hatfield," Mark whispered, his voice tight. "It's Brielle. There's been an incident. She… she collapsed. High fever, abdominal pain. The doctors are saying it's a severe infection. Possible complications for the pregnancy."

My breath hitched. My ears rang. Complications for the pregnancy. The words ricocheted in my head, a dark echo of my own secret. My stomach churned, a wave of dizziness threatening to overwhelm me. The pattern repeated. Always Brielle. Always her drama. Always his immediate response.

I felt a cold dread settle in my stomach. The irony was a bitter, metallic taste in my mouth. His fake pregnancy, her fake illness, was now overshadowing my very real one.

Arlo was already on his feet, his chair scraping loudly across the polished floor. The tenderness in his eyes was replaced by a familiar mask of steely resolve. "Get the car ready. Immediately. And keep me updated on her condition every minute." He turned to me, his expression fleetingly apologetic. "I have to go, Corinne. I'll have Mark take you home."

He was gone before I could even nod, a whirlwind of tailored suit and urgent commands.

The next few hours were a blur. I remember snippets: the frantic rush of Mark getting me into the car, a dull ache in my lower abdomen, a growing pressure in my head. I remember the cold hard floor of the emergency room, the smell of antiseptic, the hushed voices of nurses.

I woke up in a sterile white room, a IV drip in my arm. My head throbbed. Panic flared. Had they found out? About the baby?

A kind-faced nurse bustled over. "You're awake, Mrs. Hatfield. You gave us quite a scare. Severe dehydration, low blood pressure... and some early stage pregnancy complications. We need to keep you for observation."

"Pregnancy complications?" I echoed, my voice a weak whisper. My heart leaped into my throat. The secret. It was out.

Just then, Mark, Arlo's aide, appeared in the doorway, his face grim. He was on his phone. "Yes, Mr. Hatfield. I understand. She's stable. No, the doctors are being cautious." He hung up, his eyes scanning me. "Mr. Hatfield wanted to ensure you were well. He's still with Ms. Yang." He turned to the nurse. "Mr. Hatfield's instructions are for Mrs. Hatfield to be transferred to a private suite for undisturbed rest. Ensure she has anything she needs."

He left as quickly as he arrived.

The nurse looked at me, a worried frown on her face. "You're lucky, Mrs. Hatfield. The baby is strong. But you need to take it easy. Stress is not good for a high-risk pregnancy, especially in the first trimester."

High-risk pregnancy. The words echoed again. Brielle.

Later that evening, from my luxurious private room, I overheard nurses gossiping in the hallway. "Did you see Ms. Yang's suite? Top floor, roses imported from Colombia, a personal chef. And Mr. Hatfield hasn't left her side since she was admitted. Poor woman, such a traumatic pregnancy."

My heart ached with a dull, persistent pain. He was there for her, guarding her, showering her with every luxury. While I lay here, alone, truly pregnant, and battling my own silent war. The stark contrast was a cruel testament to his priorities. Brielle' s fake drama commanded his full attention, his deepest sympathy. My reality, my true struggle, was invisible to him.

The next morning, I checked myself out against medical advice. My lawyer was already waiting, a stack of papers in hand. I went directly to her office. "Send them," I said, my voice firm. "Send the divorce papers. And tell Arlo I want nothing."

I watched as she sealed the envelope, addressed it to Hatfield Tech headquarters, and dropped it into the express mail slot. My final act of defiance. The official end. I timed it perfectly. With the express delivery, he wouldn't receive them until after my flight had already taken off. He would be too busy playing nursemaid to Brielle's fake illness to even notice.

Chile. My new life. My baby's new life. A life free from his neglect, his betrayal, his suffocating shadow. This child would know love, respect, and a mother who put them first. No more being an accessory. No more being overlooked. This time, I was choosing me. Choosing us.