The Wife He Threw Away for Her Best Friend

1: 1

The day I found out I was pregnant, I stood on the balcony and looked at the wildflowers, dead for the seventh time.

Just staring at nothing.

Owen Sanchez had killed off my "plant that takes care of itself," while the orchids my best friend gave him, the ones she called "glass flowers," bloomed lush and bright under his hands.

That was when my best friend, the one staying in my home, spoke up:

"Isabella Swanson, I'm pregnant."

"The baby is your husband's."

My pupils shrank. I turned around and stared at her, stunned.

Unhurried, she pointed at the orchids she'd given Owen three years ago. "You know why Owen wanted to move back to your hometown, that little county where it's spring all year round?"

"It wasn't because he loves you. It's because the climate in Northport can't keep this orchid alive."

……

I looked at the bright, lush orchids, calm on the surface, everything churning inside.

Just then the lock turned from the outside, and Owen came in carrying vegetables and fruit.

Narelle Pruitt acted more like the lady of the house than I did, greeting him with a bright smile.

"Owen, long day? Sit down, give me the groceries, I'll cook for you two."

Owen handed the groceries to Narelle without a second thought, set down his shoulder bag, and only then noticed me.

He blinked. "Isabella? You're back? Why didn't you tell me? I'd have come to the airport to get you."

The pregnancy report crumpled in my hand.

I said, calmly, "Owen, my wildflowers died again."

Under my hard stare, Owen walked over and pulled me gently into a hug.

"I was wrong, honey. From now on I'll—"

I cut him off.

"There's no from now on. Let's get divorced."

The air around us dropped to freezing in an instant, nothing left but the sound of us breathing.

Owen went rigid, then his face twisted into something absurd.

"You want to divorce me over one dead plant?"

"Yes. Over one 'dead plant'!"

The sound of chopping in the kitchen stopped.

Narelle came out, all anxious concern, wounded tears falling.

"Don't fight, please don't fight. I'm the one who failed to look after your flowers. I'm sorry, Isabella—"

"What does it have to do with her? You're the one who's so busy and still insisted on keeping that stupid plant! If you can't take care of it, why keep it at all?!"

I stared into Owen's eyes and remembered the year we were eighteen, the way Owen had sworn to me.

"Isabella, I know you love flowers. Someday I'll plant you fields and fields of wildflowers! Even if I die, I'll have the flowers you love planted on my grave!"

I'd quickly covered his mouth. "Don't talk about dying. I want you to live, and live well!"

I laughed at myself.

The twenty-eight-year-old Isabella could love the eighteen-year-old Owen, and could love someone else at twenty-eight, but never again the twenty-eight-year-old Owen!

Because he wasn't worth it!

I threw the crumpled report into the trash.

And walked out, slamming the door.

Not long after I left, I got a text from Narelle:

*Isabella, Owen agreed to give me my rightful place.*【】

*I wanted to make it up to you, but Owen absolutely refused. He insists on transferring your apartment into my name.*【】

*Says it's security for me and the baby.*【】

*Isabella, thank you so much for training him these ten years. I'm very happy with the result.*【】

She waved at me from my own balcony, beaming.

I swayed on my feet.

In the haze of it, the Narelle who'd once thrown herself in front of me, shouting at those vicious thugs, "Come at me if you dare!"—that Narelle slowly twisted into something monstrous…

How was she any different now from those thugs?

Owen's call came through, his voice full of weariness.

"Isabella, can you please stop making a scene?"

"I'm really tired. I come home every day and still have to fight over these petty little things. Have you ever once thought about me?"

I said nothing.

His tone softened. "I admit it, I was wrong about this. But I didn't do it on purpose!"

"That time you were away on business, I'd had too much to drink at a work thing, and when I got home I thought it was you, so I—"

Three months ago, Narelle had fled her abusive home and begged me to take her in.

It was urgent, and I was away on a business trip, so I told her where we hid the spare key.

But even if what Owen said was true, Narelle had been sober the whole time, hadn't she?

If it wasn't something they both wanted, how could it have happened at all?

"Enough. Tomorrow, two in the afternoon, the county clerk's office."