Chapter One

I jolted awake, my chest throbbing with an unbearable ache. Instinctively, I pressed a hand against my breasts, full and heavy with tension. A groan escaped me as I squinted at the clock on my nightstand—4:17 a.m. Again.

"Men couldn't handle this for a day," I muttered under my breath. Sweat clung to me, my pajamas sticking to my body, making everything worse. With a frustrated sigh, I threw off the covers and stared up at the ceiling, swallowed by the dark.

The ache had become a nightly visitor, sometimes sharp, sometimes heavy, and tonight it lingered like a dull throb. I tried to ignore it, breathe through it, but my body refused to cooperate. The pressure was building and I knew I had no choice but to give in.

I sighed and sat up. The apartment felt too quiet. The only sounds were the low hum of the old fridge and the distant cars outside—just enough to remind me I wasn't stuck in a tomb. I hated living alone. I wasn't built for it. Growing up in the South, in a house that always felt too small for how many people were in it, there was never a quiet moment. Cousins sleeping on the couch, siblings arguing over the TV, and mama shouting for us to set the table. We weren't rich, but my parents made sure our home was full—loud, chaotic, and alive in a way money couldn't buy.

But now… it was just me. Alone. This apartment didn't even feel like mine. It was cold, unfamiliar—like I was squatting in someone else's life, waiting for the next move. If my mama knew I was living in the city without a husband, she'd go full "Oh Lord, have mercy!" on me. I hadn't told her what happened. How could I? She was so happy on my wedding day. I didn't want to shatter that illusion. That's why none of my family knew the truth.

Pushing the thoughts aside, I rubbed my temples and reached for the lamp, flicking it on. My eyes landed on the breast pump sitting on the nightstand, right where I had left it. I picked it up, the plastic cool in my hands—something I barely noticed anymore. It was just part of the routine now. I set it up without thinking, attached it to my breasts, and turned it on. The first pull was sharp, making me wince, but I knew it would ease up after a few minutes, like it always did. But the heartache— that never went away. I lay back, closed my eyes, and let the machine do its work.

Every night, the breast pump reminded me of what I had lost. I bought it when I was still pregnant, still hopeful, thinking I would need it for the baby. I imagined myself sitting in a nursery, feeding my child and rocking them to sleep. I had dreams—stupid ones—where Phoenix, my husband, would be there, smiling, telling me how great everything would be. But Phoenix never liked being part of that dream.

In the early days of our marriage, Phoenix loved me like I was the only person in the world. I felt untouchable, like we were in our own little bubble. He took me everywhere—dinners, business meetings, events. He thrived in those spaces, and people adored him. Just a smile from him could light up a room, and everyone hung on his every word. I was always by his side, but just out of place enough to feel it, like I didn't quite belong. Still, I didn't mind.

My friends—well, some of them—never missed a chance to remind me how lucky I was to be with someone like Phoenix. With my average looks and soft, round body, they could hardly believe it—and neither could I, if I'm honest. I never really understood why he chose me, why he married me when so many women were lining up for his attention. But I was just happy to be the one he picked. In some way, I tied my worth to him, as if being loved by him made me worthy, like I couldn't stand on my own without his approval.

But when I got pregnant at thirty-seven, everything changed. It was a risky pregnancy, but I was happy. He, on the other hand, started pulling away, little by little. At first, he was distant—canceling plans, making excuses not to be around. Then, I swear, he began to resent me. I could feel it. He stopped taking me anywhere, especially once I started showing. It only got worse from there. He wouldn't even look at me most days. He would head out for work or social events and leave me at home without saying a word. And when I asked why, he'd brush it off, saying things like, "You'd be uncomfortable," or "It's just not your scene right now." Like being pregnant somehow made me invisible. But I wasn't stupid. I knew what it really was—he didn't want to be seen with me anymore. Not with the weight gain, the swollen ankles, the belly. I wasn't the woman he could show off anymore. I didn't fit into his polished, perfect life.

But I still hoped for the best—that once the baby came, Phoenix would love me again, and love the baby. We'd be a happy family. I clung to that, even when everything else was crumbling. But I should've seen it. I should've known what he was capable of.

By the time I hit my third trimester, I couldn't shake the feeling he was cheating. At first, I told myself it was just hormones, that I was being paranoid. But deep down, I knew. The way he stayed out later, his phone always on silent, how he'd avoid eye contact when I asked where he'd been. It wasn't in my head—it was real. The suspicion kept eating at me, no matter how hard I tried to ignore it.

It wasn't until I found his phone that everything clicked. All the lies, the nights he left me alone, the cold way he looked at me like I didn't even exist—it was all there. The truth staring back at me from the screen, undeniable.

He had left his phone on the kitchen counter, like he didn't care if I found it. Maybe he wanted me to. My fingers shook as I reached for the— phone, a knot twisting in my stomach, warning me to leave it alone. But I couldn't—I had to know. I unlocked it, scrolled past the business emails, past the usual messages, until I saw them. The pictures.

Her. A woman I knew all too well.

She was laughing, sitting in his car, legs crossed, hair perfect like she didn't have a care in the world. They were at a restaurant I'd never even heard of—a place he never took me. But it wasn't just that. I had found the messages, the ones on WhatsApp. The first ones were just close-ups—body parts, sent to him like they were some kind of invitation. Her skin, her curves. I couldn't stop scrolling. Then came the pictures of her smiling, all dressed up in the same kind of dress I used to wear for him, the kind I knew he liked. And there he was, giving her the moments that were once mine, like I was nothing but a shadow now.

My hands shook as I scrolled through more pictures—more of her. She smiled in every one, as if she had everything she could ever want. And she did. She had my life. My husband. Everything I thought was mine.

I tried to tell myself maybe these were from before us, that this was all in the past. But then I saw the dates. They hit me like a punch to the gut. These weren't old. They were recent—taken while I was pregnant, while I was carrying his child. All this time, I'd been growing our family, and he'd been with her.

"Phoenix!" I shouted, my voice breaking, cracking with everything I was trying to hold back. He didn't rush in. He didn't come running. He walked in, calm and slow, Like none of it mattered.

"What is it?" he asked, not even bothering to look up from the papers in his hand.

I held up the phone, the pictures glowing, taunting me. "What the hell is this?"

He sighed and looked at me like I was being dramatic, like I had caught him in something trivial. "Put the phone down, Rose."

"Put the phone down?" I said, my voice trembling, barely holding back the storm brewing inside me. "You don't even care, do you?"

He shrugged, barely glancing at me, then raised an eyebrow like my anger was amusing to him. A small chuckle escaped him. "You were going to find out sooner or later."

Was this a joke to him? I stood there, frozen, the silence between us stretching too long. No denial. No apology. Just the truth, dropped like it was nothing. Like we were nothing.

I blinked, trying to process it, but the anger hit me first, then the sadness, like a wave I couldn't stop. My mind raced, trying to catch up with what my heart already knew.

You've been cheating on me!" I shouted, my voice cracking. "While I'm pregnant. With your baby."

His eyes narrowed, cold and hard. "Don't you dare raise your voice at me, Rose," he barked. Then, with a sneer, he added, "What did you expect? Look at yourself... You're a whale. This is pathetic."

The words hit like a slap. There wasn't even a hint of regret in his voice—just disgust.

Pathetic. That's what he thought of me. "I'm pathetic?" My voice cracked, but I didn't care. "I'm carrying your child, Phoenix."

He stepped closer, his voice low and cold. "I expected you to keep it together. Women get pregnant all the time. Most take care of themselves. But you… you just let yourself go."

The audacity of that son of a bitch! I had tried so hard to be the wife he wanted, to keep up, even when it felt impossible. But it was never enough. Nothing I did ever mattered.

I stared at him, my vision blurring with tears. "You disgust me."

He shrugged, not even flinching. His indifference stung more than anything else. "If you're gonna get emotional, we're done here."

That's when it happened. Pain hit me, sharp and sudden, slicing through my abdomen. His phone slipped from my hand and fell onto the carpet. I gasped and clutched my stomach. My knees buckled as I collapsed to the floor.

I felt the blood before I saw it. Warm and wet, it spread through my clothes and pooled beneath me, thick and dark. "Phoenix..." I reached for him, my voice shaking with panic. He didn't move. He just stared down at me, like I was nothing more than a problem he didn't want to deal with.

"I'll call an ambulance." His tone was flat. He picked up his phone, where I had dropped it, like this was just another task on his list.

That was the last thing I remembered before everything went black.

When I opened my eyes, I was in the hospital. Phoenix had apparently left after admitting me and filling out the forms. I didn't know how long I had been there. But when they told me I lost the baby, I broke. I cried until I couldn't anymore. The nurses and doctors were the only ones there to comfort me.

I stayed there for two days. On the second day, a nurse came in with a sealed envelope. Divorce papers. Phoenix had sent them over without a word. No visit. No explanation. Just papers. He was done. He walked away like none of it mattered, like the baby had never existed.

Phoenix shattered my heart. I wanted so badly to forget the pain, to move on, but my heart wouldn't let me. It clung to the memories, even when I begged it to let go. But I couldn't.

I watched the milk drip slowly into the bottles, like the tears quietly falling. When the bottles were full and I felt empty, I removed the pump and packed the bottles into the cooler. It wasn't for my baby. It was for someone else's—a child without a face or name. The only thing I had left to give.

My phone alarm went off, and I quickly silenced it. In the bathroom, I caught my reflection in the mirror: pale skin, dark circles under my eyes. My body didn't feel like mine anymore. It felt empty. Broken. But as they say, life must go on. I had to keep moving.

I stepped into the shower, and the hot water hit my skin, almost burning. I guess I liked it. The pain. At least it numbed the heartache for a while. Afterward, I dried my dark hair, tied it back, and wrapped a scarf around it to pull it into a bun.

I slipped into a plum dress that used to fit perfectly, but now it was tight around my chest, stomach, and hips. It clung in all the wrong places. But I wore it anyway—I didn't have the money for a new wardrobe. Everything still felt wrong, like I didn't fit in my own skin anymore. But I pushed through it. I didn't have much of a choice.

I grabbed the cooler and stepped out of the apartment. Taking the stairs, I headed to the parking lot. My old second-hand Honda Civic sat there, a faded blue with a dent in the bumper. It was all I could afford after Phoenix. He had stripped me of everything—my savings, my independence. Before getting married, I used to run a flower shop, The Rose Garden, but I gave it up for him and for the life he wanted. Now, I was left trying to rebuild from the ashes.

The milk bank was on my way to the flower shop. I parked and got out. Inside, everything was spotless and organized. The director greeted me at the door, her smile kind but with that look—like she knew more than she let on.

"Rose, good to see you," she said softly. "You're helping more than you know."

I forced a smile, handing over the cooler. "This week's milk."

Her hands brushed mine as she took the cooler. Her grip was light but steady, as if she knew I needed something to hold onto. "Thank you. Really."

I nodded and lingered for a moment. A warmth bloomed inside me, knowing this milk would help someone, somewhere. It was a quiet comfort, a reminder that, despite everything, I was still making a difference.

After a few moments, I turned and left. The door swung shut behind me as I steppedinto the gray day. The streets were wet from the rain, slick underfoot as I made my way to my car and drove towards my flower shop.

The shop wasn't much, but it was mine again. I parked outside, unlocked the door, and pushed it open. The bell jingled, echoing in the small space. The air smelled of roses, gardenias, and fresh-cut stems. The bright colors clashed with the heaviness inside me.

I flicked on the lights, the fluorescents buzzing to life. As I walked past the displays, my fingers grazed the soft petals, their velvety texture grounding me. It was here, in this shop, that I had met Phoenix for the first time.

I smiled at the memory, but there was bitterness in it. He had walked in on a sunny afternoon, wearing a business suit. He didn't belong among the pastel colors and sweet scents. I still remember his sheepish smile when he asked for a bouquet for a "first date, nothing too serious."

I laughed, finding him sweet and even charming. He bought a small bunch of daisies and asked me out a week later. I got swept up in him, thinking it was all smiles, laughter, and the promise of something easy. I should've known better.

I sighed, pushing the memories aside, and grabbed my apron from the hook. The worn fabric felt familiar against my fingers. Tying it behind my back, I forced myself into the routine. Arranging bouquets came naturally now. I snipped stems, adjusted vases, and sprayed the leaves with mist, the cool droplets on my skin. But no matter how busy I kept, my thoughts still wandered to Phoenix, the one who had taken the last bit of happiness I had left.

Customers came and went, their faces blurring together as they picked through arrangements. The shop was busy, but I couldn't shake the emptiness. Each sale felt like going through the motions—smiling when they handed me cash, nodding when they commented on the flowers—but inside I felt like I was just… surviving.

Katie, my friend and employee at the flower shop, stepped in around noon. Her eyes scanned me as they always did, but today there was something extra in her gaze. She paused, her expression softening before a small smile tugged at her lips. "This dress," she said, motioning to my plum-colored outfit, "really enhances the brown in your eyes. And your hair—it's darker against the color. You look good, Rose."

I tried to shrug it off, but her words stuck, a rare compliment that felt almost foreign these days. "Thanks," I mumbled, tugging at the fabric that still felt too tight, but I appreciated the effort.

Katie's smile lingered, her eyes gentle as she asked, "You alright?"

I forced a smile, the same one I had been giving everyone lately. "Just tired. One of those days, you know?"

She tilted her head, her lips pursing as if she were about to say something more, but instead, she nodded. "I'm here if you need to talk," she said quietly, her eyes holding mine for a second longer before she let it go.

I nodded back, grateful she didn't push. I didn't have the energy for a heart-to-heart, not today. Not when I was on the edge of falling apart.

The rest of the day passed in a blur, a steady stream of customers who all seemed to blend together—some browsing, some picking up orders, some rushing in last-minute for bouquets they probably forgot to order in advance. Faces came and went, but I was on autopilot.

Katie stayed busy too, chatting with a woman about wedding flowers, flipping through sample arrangement books. I could hear their voices, but they sounded far away. I was there, but I wasn't really there. I kept my head down, my hands working, focusing on the flowers because if I stopped—if I let myself think—I knew the tightness in my chest would return, stronger.

The doorbell chimed as customers came in and out. An older man shuffled in, looking lost, and asked for help finding the right flowers for his wife's birthday. I helped him pick out the perfect roses, ones with deep, velvety petals, and wrapped them up for him. His eyes softened as he took the bouquet from me, like he could already picture the look on her face when she saw them.

Next, a young boy, maybe sixteen with flushed cheeks, came in and asked for daisies. He picked at his nails while I tied the ribbon around the flowers. I could tell by the way his eyes flicked to the door that these daisies weren't just for anyone. He grinned when I handed them to him, rushing out like he couldn't get to whoever was waiting fast enough.

Usually, I'd cherish moments like that, to let them remind me why I loved this work. But today, I felt like I was underwater, just going through the motions. No matter how many bouquets I arranged or how many times I inhaled the sweet smell of fresh flowers, the ache inside me wouldn't go away. It just sat there, refusing to budge. Refusing to let me move on.