Sorry Darling, I'm Divorcing You — Free Preview

My husband Gabriel’s first love—the one he broke up with six years ago, suddenly returned to the country.

And she brought back a five-year-old son.

Since then, he’s been using business trips as an excuse and hasn’t come home for a whole month.

I unlocked my phone again. On the screen, his last reply from a few days ago still read, “Busy.”

A waiter handed me a glass of champagne. Just as I took it, another hand reached in from the side, clinking glasses with mine.

“Drinking alone is boring, miss.”

I looked up into a face that was almost too handsome, smiling with practiced ease.

I was about to turn him down when my best friend Vivienne suddenly appeared from the crowd, smiling as she interrupted, “Sorry, She’s married.”

Today is the charity gala hosted by the mayor, and I came here at Vivienne’s invitation.

She linked her arm through mine and changed the subject. “Come on, didn’t I say I had a surprise for you? Your first necklace design from freshman year— Moonlight Halo—it’s the finale piece at tonight’s auction. I’m planning to bid on it and give it to you.”

I froze for a moment.

She was talking about my very first official design work.

Vivienne winked. “Your husband’s away on a business trip anyway, and you're free. Come have some fun with me—at least don’t let someone else snatch it away.”

I was about to smile when a female voice suddenly came from behind.

“Mrs. Camille.”

I turned around. A woman in a sequined dress stood there, her lips painted a vivid red, smiling with an unsettlingly knowing expression.

I recognized her—Claudia Pierce, a reporter for Southern Spotlight, the one who specialized in digging up scandals among the wealthy and famous.

She was the kind of woman with an exceptionally sharp nose for secrets—one who specialized in digging up scandals, hidden dealings, and stories about the elite.

Her tone was almost friendly: “I have some news about your husband, but I can only tell you.”

I glanced at Vivienne. She was busy chatting elsewhere.

Claudia gestured for me to follow her out of the ballroom, and we stopped at a quiet corner of the corridor.

She took out her phone, opened a photo, and handed it over.

On the screen, Gabriel was holding a child in one arm while wrapping the other around a woman. The three of them looked intimate and natural. The location seemed to be an airport; the child was holding a small toy airplane in his hand.

My breath hitched for a moment.

Claudia’s eyes gleamed faintly. “This photo hasn’t been made public yet. I thought you might be interested.”

I stared at the image for a long while before pressing my lips together in a faint smile. “Feed that into any AI model, and it could generate ten more like it in a second.”

Claudia raised an eyebrow. “Of course, it might also be real.”

I ignored her and turned away.

When I returned to the ballroom, Vivienne noticed something was off and asked, “What happened?”

I shook my head lightly. “Nothing.”

But that photo—that damned photo—was like a nail driven deep into my mind.

No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t shake it loose.

Just then, the lights dimmed, and the host’s voice echoed through the microphone:

“Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats. Tonight’s charity gala is about to begin!”

Vivienne linked her arm with mine, her smile as bright as ever. “Let’s go—they’re about to start. Tonight I specifically got us a window seat; the view is the best, and it’s nice and quiet.”

I followed her into the ballroom.

Our seats were at the back right of the banquet hall, near the floor-to-ceiling windows. Outside lay the night view of Crownpoint Marina—the harbor lights scattered across the water like shards of gold, so dazzlingly beautiful it almost felt unreal.

The mayor’s wife, Mrs. Langford, appeared on stage in a dark blue gown, thanking the guests for their donations. Polite applause followed.

The atmosphere began to warm.

Then the host, smiling brightly, announced,

“Next, we present the first auction item of the evening—two special pieces donated by our distinguished guest from France, Madame Sophia Laurent.”

Applause erupted.

My fingers tightened around the stem of my glass.

Sophia Laurent.

The name seemed to explode in the air.

Over the past six years, I've heard it countless times, in fragments and whispers—

Gabriel’s first love, the woman he never spoke of, yet could never quite leave behind.

Vivienne leaned toward me, whispering in surprise, “That’s strange. She’s not listed in the program. Must’ve been added the last minute.”

The host went on,

“Madame Laurent is one of France’s rising design stars. What she brings tonight is a custom-made pair: a woman’s gown and a man’s suit. According to her, the suit was designed based on her vision of the perfect man.”

Admiration rippled through the crowd. The lights dimmed, then brightened as the golden curtain drew back—and my heart caught.

Sophia stepped onto the stage.

She wore a flowing white gown, golden-brown curls framing her poised face. Under the spotlight, she moved with calm confidence, every motion deliberate, effortless.

Her gaze swept the room. The photo Claudia had shown me flashed in my mind, her face overlapping with the woman in it.

She turned slightly, nodding to the host. Her voice was gentle yet carried clearly through the hall’s chatter:

“Before introducing this suit collection, I’d like to invite a very special guest—”

She paused, her eyes settling on a spot in the audience.

“Mr. Gabriel Beaumont.”

Applause broke out, swelling like a rising tide that filled the room.

The spotlight followed the crowd’s gaze, moving slowly until it came to rest on the front row.

And there he was.

Gabriel.

My husband, who’d supposedly been away on a business trip for a month.

I’d been sitting too far back to notice him before.

Just like in that photo, he was holding a little boy in his arms.

Amid the noise, he bent down, gently settling the child into a chair, straightening the little collar of his coat with quiet care.

Only then did he stand.

His figure stretched under the light, the suit fitting him flawlessly, his movements as calm and composed as ever.

The applause grew louder, flashes bursting across the room like fireworks.

Sophia stepped forward to meet him.

She smiled, extending her hand—her gaze lingered on his face for just a heartbeat too long, a moment so natural it felt rehearsed a thousand times.

He reached out, taking her hand.

Their eyes met. The light fell between them, refracting into a blinding white shimmer.

And I could almost hear the whispers around me.

“They look perfect together.”

Sophia turned slightly toward the cameras, her smile poised and luminous.

“This suit,” she said, her voice like silk, “is the embodiment of my ideal man—gentle, rational, yet possessing an irreplaceable strength.”

Thunderous applause filled the hall.

Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed the first few rows.

Claudia Pierce was sitting there. Through the crowd, she turned her head and gave me a smile. That smile carried a casual, sly edge, as if saying: I told you so.

My heart tightened sharply.

That three-person photo—it was real.

The people in the picture were Gabriel, Sophia, and their son.

I froze in my seat, my fingers clenching my knees so tightly that my fingertips trembled.

Vivienne suddenly jumped up, holding her wine glass, ready to rush forward.

I gently grabbed her and shook my head—not now.

Vivienne glanced back at me, then reached out and pulled me into a quiet embrace.

But all I could do was watch—

The man who once said ‘I can only be myself when I’m with you’,

Now standing beneath the spotlight beside another woman.

They were only a few dozen steps away.

Yet between us stretched an ocean.

When the auction segment began, the host announced the debut of Sophia Laurent’s twin designs.

As the bidding heated up, Gabriel raised his paddle again and again, calm and deliberate—each time adding another million, suppressing every other bidder without hesitation.

At last, he won.

Five million dollars, for the pair.

The crowd erupted in astonishment.

Applause followed like a wave.

The host chuckled, his tone full of admiration.

“It seems, indeed, that the man in Madame Laurent’s eyes—the perfect man—was meant to wear her creation.”

The spotlight fell on them once more.

Sophia turned her head slightly, smiling at Gabriel.

I sat in the corner, watching, feeling the tightness in my chest grow sharper with every passing second.

Beside me, Vivienne’s face darkened, her voice trembling with anger.

“He’s such a jerk! Has he lost his fucking mind? Putting on this circus in front of everyone?”

She gritted her teeth. “And her—that bitch—‘the perfect man’? Please. How is a cheating husband ever ‘perfect’?”

I kept my eyes on the two of them, bathed in admiration and light.

Something hollow and heavy opened up in my chest.

I turned to Vivienne, my voice shaking. “I can’t stay here any longer. If I keep watching… I’m going to break.”

Her brows knitted, anger and pity flickering across her face. “Break? You need to wake the hell up.”

She yanked me to my feet, hissing under her breath, “Camille, this is exactly your problem—you never stand up for yourself. You should march right back in there and slap them both across the face.”

I shook my head. Gabriel was the current head of the Beaumont family, and the Beaumont Group was the most powerful real estate and energy conglomerate in Beauforte City.

For the sake of the family’s reputation—and his pride—I couldn’t possibly make a scene like that in front of so many people.

I begged Vivienne to take me out.

She steadied me as we slipped through the side door, my steps unsteady and light.

The glass doors closed behind us, shutting out the noise and laughter. The wind from the marina swept over me, cool and bracing, clearing a little of the fog in my head.

But Vivienne didn’t stop scolding.

“Camille, do you know how long I’ve wanted to shake some sense into you? Since college!”

“You gave up such incredible design talent! My mother saw your sketches and immediately wanted to buy everything you ever created—and you know how much weight she carries in the design world. Your very first project, from freshman year, became the centerpiece of this auction! And yet after two years, you decided to switch majors.”

I lowered my head, fingers gripping the base of my champagne glass, memories flashing through my mind,

How I’d given up design to study psychological therapy, all because of Gabriel’s insomnia.

Vivienne pressed on, her voice rising.

“Fine, you switched. But you were a prodigy! Your research on sleep therapy and psychological healing was published in academic journals. If you’d stayed with your professor, you’d be making a name for yourself by now.”

I murmured faintly, “I… I did it for Gabriel.”

“For him!?” she almost shouted. “And what did you get out of it? You married him right after graduation, built your entire world around him, convinced yourself that it was love—and look at you now!”

I bit my lip hard, memories playing in my mind like shards of glass—

The nights I mixed his medication, kept him company through his sleepless hours, gave him therapy with my own hands.

All of it, all that devotion, had led to nothing but lies.

He even had a child—with her.

Vivienne’s voice turned sharp with rage.

“He told you he was on business trips? And really he was cheating! Showing up with another woman at an auction, flaunting their affair for everyone to see. Camille, how long are you going to keep making excuses for him? You’re pathetic!”

Vivienne drove me all the way to the door, her face still clouded with anger.

“Camille, you really need to learn to protect yourself. You have to understand, men are like clothes — lose one, and you can always buy another.”

“I know,” I forced out a smile. “Go on home, I’m really fine.”

She hesitated for a few seconds, as if wanting to say more, but in the end only sighed, closed the door for me, and drove away.

The huge villa was so quiet that only the hum of the central air conditioner could be heard.

I leaned against the door, feeling completely hollowed out.

Back in the bedroom, I didn’t turn on the lights. I changed into my pajamas, crawled straight into bed, and pulled the blanket over my head. The air was hot and stifling, but I’d rather endure that than think.

Yet my mind refused to obey—

Fragments of the past surfaced:

We grew up together; I’d liked him since we were kids, always wanting to follow wherever he went.

When stress from work gave him insomnia, I changed my major in college to study psychological healing.

After my family went bankrupt, he paid off my debts and married me despite his family’s opposition.

For three years after our marriage, I cared for him meticulously, believing that if I just tried hard enough, we could be the happiest couple in the world.

—Those moments that once made me believe love could heal everything now echoed back with bitter mockery.

My mind knew with brutal clarity that it was over—he loved her, his first love, and now she was back, bringing their child with her.

But my heart ached uncontrollably.

I turned over, forcing my eyes shut. The more I tried to sleep, the faster my heart pounded.

In the middle of the night, I heard footsteps coming up the stairs.

For a moment, I stopped breathing.

The rhythm of the steps was familiar.

The bathroom light flicked on, then off again.

I heard the sound of running water, then silence. The air filled with the scent of his shampoo — that cool fir fragrance he always used.

Then the mattress dipped slightly.

I stayed still, pretending to sleep. But that familiar warmth — his presence, his breath — was too close.

“Camille.”

He whispered my name beside my ear in a way that his voice felt like a rough caress against my skin, his breath laced with exhaustion and the faint trace of alcohol.

I kept my eyes closed, my body a statue in the tangled sheets, offering no answer.

The next second, his hand landed on my side, his knuckles trembling slightly, and he lifted me into his arms and his lips found the hollow of my throat in a kiss that felt less like affection and more like a brand of ownership.

His fingers worked at the strap of my top, the calloused pad of his thumb scraping my skin before the fabric peeled off.

A draft of cool air touched my bared shoulder, raising goosebumps in its wake.

It was that small, physical shock that finally made me open my eyes.

I looked straight at him, my gaze searching the planes of his face for a flicker of shame or an apology but there was nothing.

His eyes were dark pools, clouded with want and something harder, more determined.

They held no guilt, only a single-minded focus that made my stomach clench.

"Don't do that."

The words left my lips as a breathless plea, so quiet they were almost swallowed by the pounding of my own heart.

He rolled his Adam's apple, as if about to say something, but instead he just lowered his head and the hot kisses kept falling.

His mouth was relentless, moving from my neck to the slope of my shoulder, a trail of heat that my body recognized even as my mind recoiled.

Then his head dipped lower.

His mouth closed over my breast, his tongue circling, then sucking with a firm, knowing pressure.

He knew all my sensitive spots and chose to attack those areas.

A sharp, unwelcome jolt of sensation shot through me, a treacherous echo of a pleasure I did not want to feel.

I had fought against it but it was useless.

I arched, not in invitation but in a futile attempt to escape the intimate violation, but I ended up moaning uncontrollably.

He became even more passionate, his large hand moving down my stomach, his touch possessive and demanding.

"Are you ready?"

I shook my head desperately, the motion frantic. Tears came hot from the corners of my eyes into my hairline.

In the dim light, he must have mistaken my despair for overwhelmed surrender, my resistance for a hesitant invitation. He saw the glistening tracks and, I think, believed they were for him.

With a low groan, he parted my legs and plunged into my body.

A wave of nausea hit me. I pushed him away and rushed to the bathroom.

The soft glow of the nightlight spilled across the room as he turned it on. The heavy atmosphere scattered, leaving only the sound of me retching.

I hadn’t eaten dinner — just a few sips of champagne at the party.

Now my stomach burned with emptiness and acid.

Leaning over the sink, I tried to catch my breath, but nothing came out.

I heard his footsteps coming down the stairs; it sounded like he paced a couple of steps in the living room before heading back upstairs.

A sudden, ridiculous thought struck me—had I made him despise me?

A few minutes later, I came out of the bathroom.

The room smelled faintly of tobacco. He was sitting at the edge of the bed, his pajamas open, looking a little weary.

He looked up at me, his expression calm—almost gentle—and handed me a glass of water.

“Drink a little,” his voice low and husky. “It’ll make you feel better.”

I reached out and pushed the glass away, keeping my tone restrained. “No, I’ve already had some.”

He was silent for two seconds, then picked up a black jewelry box from the bedside table.

“A diamond bracelet,” he said casually, “I saw it at the auction. Thought it would suit you, so I bought it.”

Not bad—he even had the time to buy me a piece of jewelry.

He handed me the box. I looked at his long, slender hands and forced down the nausea twisting in my throat as I took the box and set it aside.

“Aren’t you going to look?” He raised an eyebrow, his tone so calm it almost sounded like a business matter. “Want me to put it on for you?”

I lifted my eyes to him, my voice soft but ice-cold. “Do you think I’m in the mood right now?”

He froze.

At that instant, the air felt taut.

He looked at me silently, a flicker of shock crossing his face, as if he couldn’t believe those words had come from my mouth.

I knew he was used to the obedient, considerate, never-contradicting me.

But after tonight—that version of me was gone.

He remained silent for a moment, then spoke in a low voice, as if afraid to disturb something:

“You’re tired today. Get some rest early.”

I slowly turned around, crawled under the covers, and buried myself.

I closed my eyes, no longer looking at him, no longer asking.

Daylight was breaking, and the light streaming through the curtain slits was sharp in my eyes.

When I woke, I still felt dazed. The side of the bed where he had been was cool.

Gabriel had already left.

My phone kept vibrating on the bedside table.

I reached for the phone—it was Gabriel’s sister, Isabella, calling.

Her voice trembled with urgency: “Camille! You have to go online right now, it’s insane! The whole internet is buzzing!”

A chill ran through me as I unlocked my phone. Several news notifications popped up one after another—

【Gabriel Beaumont Teams Up with Rising French Designer Sophia Laurent!】

【Former Lovers Reunite: Gabriel Buys Million-Dollar Necklace for Sophia, Perfect Chemistry On and Off Stage!】

【Sophia Laurent Appears with Son Adrien, Suspected to Be the Beaumont Heir!】

Each headline was sharper than the last.

I looked at each of those photos. I had witnessed their closeness with my own eyes last night, and now it was playing out before me again.

I wanted to throw my phone away, but it rang—it was my dad calling.

I froze for a second and answered: “Dad?”

Urgent breaths came through the line, his voice almost shouting—

“Camille! Where are you? Your mother—she saw the news, and her heart condition acted up! I just called 911, they’re already on their way!”

I froze completely, a buzzing ringing in my ears.

“What?” I croaked. “How is she now? Is she still at home?”

“Yes!” His voice trembled with panic. “The doctors said she needs to be taken to Beauforte Central Hospital immediately. You need to come right now!”

The moment the call ended, my hands were still shaking.

Those words—“heart condition acted up”—hit my chest like a sledgehammer.

I grabbed my coat and rushed down the stairs, my heart pounding wildly.

At the stairwell, I saw—

Gabriel, already changed, shirt crisp and cuffs neat, sitting calmly on the living room sofa, sipping his coffee.

He looked up at me as if he had already heard my earlier call, brow slightly furrowed. “Something happened?”

I had no energy to explain, just blurted out: “My mom’s heart condition flared up… I have to go to the hospital.”

He immediately stood, picking up a coat and car keys. “I’ll drive you.”

I didn’t respond, just followed him briskly out the door. But as we reached the car, his phone rang.

It was a private ringtone—I knew it too well.

He paused, glanced at me, a flicker of hesitation in his eyes, then walked a few steps away to answer.

A female voice, soft and low, carried through the distance.

With his back to me, he lowered his voice: “I know, I’ll be there right away.”

My chest tightened. When he turned back, his tone had returned to calm: “Camille, let the driver take you first. I have a few things to handle, but I’ll be there soon.”

I stared at him, unable to say a word.

His “I’ll be there soon” sounded as light as air.

His words, “I’ll be there soon,” were as light as air.

I pulled a car key from my own bag, my voice so cold it hardly sounded like mine. “No need.”

Before he could react, I had already opened the door of the car I usually drove.

“Camille—”

I didn’t let him finish. I pressed the accelerator and drove off.

I arrived at the hospital first.

The air in the lobby was filled with the sharp, cold scent of disinfectant.

Mom had already been taken into the emergency room, and the red light above the door was on.

Dad and I sat on the bench, neither of us saying a word.

He turned to glance at me, his voice hoarse. “You don’t look well. Didn’t get enough rest?”

I shook my head, trying to keep my voice steady. “No, I’m fine… just worried about Mom.”

He sighed and didn’t press further, only kept his eyes fixed on the tightly closed door.

By noon, Louis had rushed over from school.

Panting, he ran straight to me before even putting down his backpack, trembling as he spoke. “Sister, how’s Mom?”

I patted his back gently, forcing a tone of comfort. “She’s still in emergency care. The doctor said we need to wait a bit longer.”

He wiped his tears and looked toward Dad. Then, suddenly frowning, he said, “When I was coming up just now, I think I saw Gabriel.”

I froze. “Gabriel?”

Louis nodded. “Yeah, he was walking ahead of me. I called his name, but he didn’t seem to hear me. Then he got into the elevator—I saw him press fifteen.”

My heart tightened.

The fifteenth floor? That… isn’t a general ward.

I tried to sound calm. “Are you sure it was him?”

“Positive. I even saw him talking on the phone.”

I stood up, grabbing my bag. “I’m going to the restroom.”

With that, I turned and walked away, my steps growing faster and faster.

Only when I reached the corner—where no one could see me anymore—did I start almost running toward the elevator and press the button.

The fifteenth floor.

I pressed the button, and the elevator doors slowly closed. My heartbeat grew louder and louder, drowning out every other sound.

The fifteenth floor was lined with private VIP rooms. The corridor lights glowed softly white, and the air carried a faint trace of medicine.

There weren’t many people around—it was so quiet I could almost hear the click of my own heels.

I searched room by room along the hall, my heartbeat tight and heavy in my chest.

Then, as I turned a corner, I suddenly stopped.

One of the doors was slightly ajar. Through the narrow gap, I could clearly see Gabriel.

He was sitting on the sofa beside the hospital bed, his back to me, head bowed, shoulders tense.

And in front of him, the woman—Sophia—was leaning gently against his shoulder.

I heard her soft voice seep through the crack in the door:

“Émile suddenly fainted, and I was so scared… Could you… stay with me?”

Her tone trembled just a little, yet it was as smooth and tender as silk.

The light fell across her neck, and a silver glint slipped out from under her collar—a necklace.

I froze.

It was one I had designed—Moonlight Halo. At last night’s auction.

For a moment, time stopped.

I remembered my freshman year, sketching draft after draft.

Each time, I’d show him and ask which version looked most like “moonlight.”

Back then, I was foolishly earnest, telling him with all my heart:

“This is the purest kind of love I can imagine—bright as moonlight, untouched by dust.”

I thought—he would remember.

That necklace was supposed to be mine.

But now, it hung around another woman’s neck.

And he… was in her arms.

Tears slid down uncontrollably.

I raised my hand to wipe them, but when my fingers brushed my wrist, I froze.

My watch was gone.

In its place was a bracelet studded with tiny diamonds.

And at that instant, I understood—

It was the one from last night’s auction.

The one I had refused.

He must have… put it on me after I fell asleep.

I could hardly bring myself to think.

The chaos of the morning—the online rumors, my mother’s sudden heart attack, the hospital’s blaring emergency alarm—had left me no room to notice anything else.

Only now did the diamonds catch the cold white light, gleaming sharply in my eyes.

He had given her the Moonlight Halo I designed,

A symbol of what I once called “the purest kind of love.”

And then—

he gave me a simple bracelet.

As if to compensate, as if to silence.

My throat tightened; pain pulsed in my chest again and again.

The bracelet felt heavy against my wrist, as though pressing down on my heart itself.

I yanked it off.

And flung it into the corner without a second thought.

Then I turned, almost stumbling as I ran down the long corridor,

My steps echoing in the quiet air—

Until I reached the elevator,

And returned to the seventh floor,

Where my Dad and Mom were still waiting for me.

When I returned to the emergency room, a small crowd had already gathered outside.

A nurse was pushing out a stretcher—Mom’s face was pale, but her breathing was steady.

The doctor removed his mask and said, “The surgery went very well. The patient is out of danger, but she’ll need to stay in the observation room for twenty-four hours.”

I let out a long breath, my whole body nearly giving way as I leaned against the wall just to stay upright.

Dad looked exhausted, but there was finally a faint light of relief in his eyes.

Louis’s tense expression eased too, though he quickly turned to me, his eyes shining with that unguarded teenage sincerity.

“Camille, did you see Gabriel? How come he hasn’t come yet?”

My heart skipped a beat. I forced my voice to sound calm.

“He went to talk to the director—to arrange for a cardiac specialist for Mom.”

Louis nodded, completely trusting. “That’s good then. Sis, you should go home and rest. Dad and I will stay here. I still have class this afternoon—you can come take over for me later.”

I was afraid that if I said another word, I’d give myself away, so I just nodded. “Alright. Call me if anything happens.”

When I stepped out of the hospital, the night wind hit my face—sharp as a blade.

I drove off, the streetlights flickering across the windshield in broken, trembling lines.

At an intersection, my gaze caught on an old sign by the roadside—

“Miller & Co. Law Office.”

Without hesitation, I turned on the signal and pulled over.

I pushed the door open; the air inside smelled faintly of coffee and paper.

The receptionist looked up with a polite smile. “Welcome. How may I help you?”

“I’d like to draft a divorce agreement.”

Gabriel’s POV

I am Gabriel Beaumont,

The current head of the Beaumont Consortium.

My schedule is packed from dawn till dusk—meetings, reports, negotiations, with not a single moment to rest. For others, this might be a symbol of honor; for me, it feels more like a meticulously designed cage.

A month ago, I traveled to France for an energy project negotiation. On the return flight that day, I met her—Sophia Laurent.

My first love.

We hadn’t seen each other for six years. She looked thinner than I remembered. She had a boy with her, about five years old, sitting by the window. He was unnaturally quiet, clutching tightly at her sleeve.

When I walked past, she didn’t recognize me at first. It wasn’t until I spoke that she looked up, a flicker of panic flashing across her face.

“Gabriel…?”

Six years ago, our relationship was destroyed by my grandfather.

He forbade me from being with a woman of “ordinary background.”

Sophia was forcibly sent to France, while I was compelled to inherit the consortium and marry Camille.

I once thought six years would be enough to erase everything.

But the moment she appeared before me, all those suppressed memories came rushing back.

She claimed she was only “temporarily back in the country,” staying with her brother.

But I could tell she was lying.

I didn’t press further. I simply had my driver take her and her son to stay in one of my rarely used residences near Crownpoint Marina—a private, quiet place where no one would notice them.

A few days later, I finally learned the truth.

Her son’s name is Émile Laurent. He has mild autism and suffers from intermittent fainting spells. The doctor said he would need long-term treatment and a stable environment.

As for Sophia’s husband—or rather, ex-husband—he was a violent, controlling man. The reason she fled France was that, after yet another beating, she barely escaped with her life.

She survived on her own through her design career and had only recently begun to regain recognition in the industry. She said this trip back home was both for a collaboration project and for protection.

When I heard this, a sharp pain struck my chest.

She had once been such a bright, radiant girl; now she was a cautious mother, carrying invisible scars.

I’m not sure if what I did then was rational.

I only wanted—to give her a place where she could breathe.

And perhaps, to give myself—a chance to make amends I never voiced.

Later, one of her designs was selected for a city charity auction.

She invited me to attend, saying it symbolized her “new beginning.”

That night at the auction, I hadn’t planned to stay long.

Events like that were nothing more than routine to me.

But when Sophia said that suit had been custom-made for me, I didn’t hesitate—I bid for it without question.

I hated seeing things connected to me bought by someone else.

Among the items, I noticed a diamond bracelet.

The light refracted off it in tiny flashes of silver, that cold, white gleam instinctively reminding me of—Camille’s wrist. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, and that glint of diamonds perfectly highlighted her charm and liveliness.

I immediately bought it and even asked the organizers to engrave a “C” on the clasp. Camille liked her belongings to be one of a kind, so everything I gave her bore this mark.

Then Sophia looked at the final piece up for auction—a necklace called the “Moonlight Halo.” She cast me a pleading glance. “This necklace is very special,” she said softly. “I want it.”

So I didn’t think twice, and raised my paddle once more.

It was, at the time, just a polite gesture—or perhaps a reflex born of old affection.

I didn’t realize that this simple act would later ignite a storm of public scandal.

The next day, the headlines I despised most—those in the entertainment columns—were everywhere,

Each title was more sensational than the last.

And the accompanying photo—taken at just the right angle under the flash—captured Sophia smiling, making us appear far too intimate.

I had thought such news would never be published.

In the past, any gossip involving the Beaumont family was intercepted before it ever reached the public.

But this time, someone was clearly pulling strings behind the scenes—within a single night, the story was everywhere.

Even the next morning—

While I was downstairs having coffee, I heard Camille’s phone ring. Her mother had been rushed to the hospital after a sudden heart attack.

Just as we were leaving, my phone rang again. It was Elias.

His voice was unusually tense:

“Sir, things are getting out of control. There are a lot of reporters outside the company, and some of them have tracked down your residences. They don’t know your exact address yet, but they recognize your car.”

In that instant, I understood everything.

“I know. I’ll be there right away,” I replied.

I told Camille to leave first. The car she usually drove wasn’t eye-catching; the reporters wouldn’t stop her.

She got in, looking dazed, and I stood at the doorway watching her taillights disappear into the distance.

I instructed the legal team to shut down all involved media accounts and issue cease-and-desist notices without leaving any loopholes.

After arranging everything—even ordering the guards to clear out the reporters—I was about to head to the hospital when my phone rang again.

It was Sophia.

Her voice trembled slightly. “Gabriel, Émile fainted again… The doctor says it doesn’t look good. I’m alone… I’m afraid he won’t make it.”

My hand tightened around the steering wheel, and for a few seconds, I said nothing.

That child had been in and out of the hospital for weeks, every episode bringing him to the edge of life and death.

I drew a long breath and said quietly, “Okay, I’ll be there in a little while.”

After calming Sophia down, I stepped out of the ward. A few nurses were chatting and laughing in a corner of the hallway.

I hadn’t planned to pay attention—until something one of them was holding caught the light, flashing in a way I instantly recognized.

A diamond bracelet.

I walked over and took it straight from her hand.

My fingers were trembling slightly as I searched the inside of the clasp for that small engraving—C.

The very bracelet I had fastened onto Camille’s wrist just this morning.

My voice came out low and controlled. “Why do you have this bracelet?”

The nurses froze. One of them stammered, “I’m sorry, Mr. Beaumont… It was left behind by a very beautiful lady.”

A very beautiful lady.

It must be Camille.

She had come here. She knew I was here.

And yet, she threw away what I’d given her, with complete indifference.

I took a slow breath, slipped the bracelet into my pocket, and went back into the ward.

“I spoke with the nurses. An attendant will come by soon to help you,” I said.

Sophia looked up at me, exhaustion clouding her eyes. “Didn’t you say you’d stay tonight?”

“Something came up,” I replied, adjusting her pillow and keeping my tone steady. “You and Émile should rest.”

She released my hand gently, her voice low. “It’s my fault… My son and I have been taking up too much of your time. Your wife must be upset. You should go make it up to her.”

I propped up her pillow, making sure she was settled. “Don’t worry,” I said quietly. “She’s fine.”

When I returned home late that night, every light was off, and the house felt unusually cold.

I stood at the doorway for a long time before turning on the light. The emptiness of the living room sent a chill through me.

In the three years we’d been married, no matter how late it was, she always waited for me here—either watching TV or dozing off under a blanket.

But tonight, not a single light was left on.

It seemed she was truly angry this time.

The bedroom light was soft and pale.

She wasn’t asleep—leaning against the headboard, her expression distant. When I came in, she didn’t say a word.

I took off my coat and kept my tone even. “I ran into Louis at the hospital today.”

Her fingers twitched slightly, but she quickly hid it. “Mm.”

“Did you go to the fifteenth floor?”

Her gaze flickered. “No.”

I looked at her and pulled the diamond bracelet from my pocket, placing it before her.

“Then what’s this? I picked it up on the fifteenth floor.”

She froze for a moment, then her voice quickened: “Yeah, Louis said he saw you go up to the fifteenth floor, but I didn’t find you when I went up. Where did you go?”

I took her hand, wanting to put it on for her, but unexpectedly, she snatched the bracelet and threw it hard onto the table.

It rolled a few times across the wooden surface, clinking sharply.

Her bag tipped over, spilling papers onto the floor.

One document landed face-down, and as I bent to pick it up, I caught a glimpse of her signature on the last page.

“What’s this?” I asked.

She looked flustered, quickly bending down before I could reach it. “Nothing—it’s just hospital paperwork!”

I blocked her, reaching for the file—but then my phone buzzed violently in my pocket.

The ringtone cut sharply through the silence of the room.

Suddenly, she lost control, lunging at me. “Answer it! Isn’t work what matters most to you? Go on, answer the damn call!”

I frowned and tried to step aside, but she bit down hard on the back of my hand.

Pain shot through me; reflexively, I pushed her away.

She stumbled backward, lost her balance, and fell hard to the floor with a dull thud.

The room went silent.

I stood frozen, my fingertips still tingling.

Her hair was disheveled as she curled up on the ground, motionless.

She used to pretend to faint whenever we argued; this time, she’s definitely using the same trick to make me give in.

The air grew so heavy it was hard to breathe.

I took a slow breath and said, “We’ll talk when you calm down.”

Then I turned and walked out.

Camille’s POV

When I woke up, the sky was already faintly lit with dawn.

The light in the hospital room stung my eyes, and the air was thick with the smell of disinfectant.

Margaret was sitting by the bed, calm as always, peeling an apple in her hands.

Isabella was leaning against the window. The moment she saw me awake, she let out a sigh of relief.

I tried to sit up, my throat so dry I could barely speak.

“...Gabriel? Did he just drop me off and leave?”

Margaret froze for a moment, saying nothing.

It was Isabella who spoke first, words tumbling out quickly:

“It wasn’t him! It was me! I called you, but you didn’t answer, so I went to check on you—and found you collapsed on the floor. I panicked and brought you here myself.”

As soon as she finished, Margaret shot her a subtle glare, but it was already too late.

I was stunned.

It felt like something had been hollowed out of my chest.

So, it wasn’t him.

He didn’t even care that I had really passed out.

He had someone more important to take care of—

his first love had come back, bringing his child with her.

A five-year-old boy.

He looked so fond of him, holding him all the time.

I closed my eyes, my fingers tightening until the IV needle dug painfully into my skin.

A man like that… how could he possibly have time to care whether I lived or died?

Leaning back against the bed, my head still throbbed faintly.

The sky outside was gray and heavy, as if it were about to rain. The faint smell of medicine in the air made me a little nauseous.

Margaret tucked the blanket around me and asked softly, “Feeling any better?”

I forced a small smile, my voice hoarse. “My mother just had heart surgery. I don’t want her to know I’m in the hospital… Could I trouble you to take me home?”

She froze for a moment, then sighed. “You’re such a considerate child.”

That sigh made my eyes sting.

Pressing her lips together, her expression suddenly darkened. She picked up her phone and dialed a number.

My heart tightened—I knew what she was about to do, but it was too late to stop her.

“Gabriel!” she snapped the moment the call connected, her voice unusually sharp.

“What kind of husband are you? Camille fainted, and you didn’t even take her to the hospital?!”

There was silence on the other end.

His voice, when it came, was cold and detached. “How is she?”

Margaret trembled with anger. “The doctor said it was low blood sugar and emotional stress! And you’re asking me how she is?”

Isabella couldn’t hold back and interjected, “Brother, if it weren’t for all those rumors about you, Camille wouldn’t have been so upset.”

There was another pause—then his voice came again, calm to the point of cruelty.

“It’s just gossip. I’ve already had PR contain it. Mom, don’t worry. She’ll be fine after some rest.”

Margaret was so furious she nearly exploded. “Gabriel, you get over here right—”

But before she could finish, he cut her off.

“There’s something at the office. I’ll call later.”

Then—beep.

The call ended.

Margaret’s face went pale with rage, her hand shaking.

“How come? He’s becoming more heartless by the day!” she muttered through clenched teeth.

I didn’t know what to say. I could only whisper, “Please don’t… this isn’t your fault.”

She looked at me, eyes full of pity.

I managed a faint smile. “Please don’t get involved between us. Let us handle it ourselves.”

Margaret was silent for a while before she finally nodded.

“All right. I’ll have the driver bring the car around.”

On the way home, I leaned against the window, saying nothing.

The city lights blurred past, dreamlike and distant.

And in my heart, only one thought remained—

No matter how much it hurts, I have to end this myself.

When I finally got home, the entryway was silent, the air still carrying traces of the hospital.

Margaret and Isabella insisted on staying to take care of me, but I smiled and persuaded them to leave—I said I wanted to rest alone.

The moment the door closed, the house fell utterly quiet, save for the sound of my breathing.

I walked into the bathroom and turned on the light.

The reflection staring back at me was haggard—pale skin, cracked lips, dark circles under my eyes.

In just a few days, it was as if my soul had been drained away.

I squeezed some toothpaste onto the brush, went through the motions of brushing my teeth, then set the cup back in its place.

Clink—

A sharp sound.

The cup had slipped from my hand and shattered completely on the floor.

I crouched down.

My fingers trembled as I picked up a shard of porcelain. The edge was sharp—it cut into my fingertip.

Blood welled up slowly, dripping onto the familiar pattern—

It was the couple’s portrait of me and Gabriel.

That cup was something I’d ordered online for our first wedding anniversary.

The picture was one I’d secretly taken when I leaned close to him.

He’d said it was childish and refused to use it.

I’d begged him for a whole week, and after pleasing him the entire night, he finally agreed—reluctantly.

Looking at the shard in my palm, my chest tightened bit by bit.

Then, suddenly, I stood up.

Bang—

Another cup shattered against the floor.

Porcelain pieces scattered everywhere, covering the white sink in chaos.

I began hurling everything within reach—cups, perfume bottles, the hair dryer…

From the washstand to the bathroom, I smashed them all.

Each crisp crash of glass echoed like a release, as if all the emotions I’d buried for so long had finally burst free.

Ten minutes later, I was spent—collapsed on the cold tiles.

Around me were shards of porcelain, splinters of glass, soaked towels, and a torn charging cord.

Lying amid the wreckage, tears slipped down my temples one by one.

Then, through the tears, I started to laugh.

I used to believe Gabriel and I would have countless tomorrows.

But I never imagined our ending would be like this—

—so messy, so final.

I no longer had the strength to get up. I just lay there, staring blankly at the ceiling, my mind drifting.

Somewhere in the haze, a gentle voice reached my ears—

“Listen to the doctor, stay a few more days. When you’re discharged, I’ll take you and our son shopping—you can have whatever you want.”

For a moment, I thought I was dreaming.

Maybe it was Gabriel speaking to me in that dream.

I had imagined such scenes so many times—

Him walking with me through shops, helping me try on clothes, pushing a cart in the supermarket, sleeves casually rolled up, smiling as we argued over which coffee to buy.

A life so ordinary and warm—I truly believed we’d have it someday.

But reality never matched the dream.

The things delivered to me were always designer dresses—tags still attached, cold and pristine.

Everyday essentials were bought by his secretary, businesslike and distant.

The things I liked, the things I wanted—I bought for myself.

Even on holidays, it was Isabella who accompanied me—shopping, chatting, testing perfumes—

He was always “too busy.”

“Too many meetings, too many projects. Take the card—buy whatever you want.”

That’s what he always said.

And I always believed him.

I kept thinking, just wait a little longer.

One day, he would finally have time.

One day, he would put everything aside, and we could live those simple days together.

It almost felt… like he was really back.

He stood in the doorway, his expression as cold as ice.

“Why did you pretend to faint?”

His voice was low, but every word carried the sharp edge of a blade.

“Complaining to my mother now? Trying to play the victim? And—breaking things? You’re getting bold, aren’t you?”

I slowly opened my eyes. My vision was blurry as I looked up at him.

Those eyes—once the safest place I knew—now only reflected a cold, unfamiliar light.

My lips moved, trying to form words, but no sound came out.

My throat felt scorched, dry and raw, every breath scraping against the pain.

Tears slid silently down my cheeks, soaking into the pillow.

For a moment, something flickered across his face—

A crack in the ice, a brief trace of concern.

He sighed and stepped closer, lifting me gently off the floor and onto the bed.

His voice softened, touched with helplessness.

“Even if you’re upset, you shouldn’t take it out on your body.”

I didn’t move. Didn’t look at him. Didn’t answer.

The air between us was so still, I could hear both our breaths.

He seemed like he wanted to talk—maybe to explain.

“Camille—”

I shut my eyes, shutting him out.

His voice faltered, sinking lower, heavy with frustration.

After a long silence, he drew back, his tone turning sharp again.

“If you don’t care about your own body, then stop pretending. I’m done believing your little dramas. I’ve already told my mother—your fainting spell was nothing but an act.”

The words stabbed straight into my chest, cold and merciless.

I struggled to breathe, my voice barely a whisper.

“Would you only believe me… if I were dead?”