4: Chapter 0004: There’s Someone Else, Isn’t There?
4: Chapter 0004: There’s Someone Else, Isn’t There?
Elena’s Point Of View “Then we divorce.
I’ll find someone else.
Someone fertile.
And this entire five-year experiment will be written off as a regret.” The heavy cardboard corners of the cake box slipped right through my numb fingers.
It struck the marble tile with a loud, wet thud.
The layers shifted, the red velvet splitting open, and white frosting smeared across the grey veins of the floor.
I didn’t even glance down.
The mess didn’t matter… not the ruined cake, not the frosting spreading like spilled blood across the expensive Italian tile.
Nothing in the room mattered except the echo of what he’d just said, those words reverberating through my skull like a death knell.
It’s either this… or we file for divorce.
My hand went to my hip, fingers digging through the thin silk of my slip into my skin hard enough to bruise.
The pressure grounded me, kept me from floating away into the unreality of this moment.
I forced a dry chuckle from my throat, shaking my head in disbelief.
“Graham, stop it,” I said, hearing the tremor beneath my attempted lightness.
“It’s too late for this.
You’ve had too much of that wine.” “I’m not joking, Elena.” He set the glass down on the island.
The base clicked against the stone with a finality that made my stomach drop.
The sound seemed to echo in the sudden silence, punctuating his declaration like a judge’s gavel.
My eyes stung, a hot, sudden pressure rushing behind my lids before I could even try to blink it back.
I didn’t realize the tears had started until I felt the wetness track down my jaw, cold and fast, leaving trails of humiliation in their wake.
Five years of marriage, and I’d never felt more exposed, more vulnerable than I did in this moment, standing in our kitchen in nothing but silk and bare feet.
“But we both visited so many hospitals and doctors, Graham,” I whispered, my voice cracking, stripping away any dignity I had left.
The words tumbled out in a desperate rush, each one a plea.
“Even overseas.
London, Germany…
we went everywhere.
We were both confirmed to be fit and okay.
I don’t know what’s causing the delay, but please, Graham, don’t do this.” My voice broke completely on his name, splintering like glass.
“The last doctor we saw said there’s a solution.
That I can get pregnant.
We just need more time.
You promised me we’d…” He cut me off with a slight flick of his hand.
It was a small, effortless movement.
Calm.
Completely uninterested.
As if he were dismissing a server at one of his business dinners, someone beneath his notice, someone whose feelings didn’t register on his radar.
“I’m not asking, Elena,” he said, his tone dropping into that sharp, final register he used when terminating a supplier contract.
“I’m just letting you know.” I stood there frozen, the skin on my face tight from the drying tears, my eyes burning under the harsh kitchen lights.
The overhead fixtures suddenly felt too bright, too exposing, illuminating every crack in the facade of our marriage.
Each breath felt like swallowing glass.
“So you’ve made the decision already.” He didn’t deny it.
He just stood there, looking at me with those cold gray eyes that used to soften when they met mine.
Eyes that used to hold warmth, desire, affection… all the things I’d foolishly believed would last forever.
“Since when, Graham?” I stepped over the ruined cake, my bare feet sticky with frosting, but I didn’t care.
The sweetness clung to my skin, a grotesque contrast to the bitterness flooding my mouth.
I needed to see his face closer, needed to search for some trace of the man I’d married, the man who’d promised me forever on a beach in Santorini.
“Since when?
You planned all of this.
You sat on it, you worked out the details, and then you still touched me just now?” My voice rose, trembling with rage and betrayal, each word sharper than the last.
“You went upstairs, you got into that shower, and you touched me as if we were fine.
You let me believe we were okay.
You let me think we were celebrating.” “We are okay, Elena,” he said, and the terrifying part was that he sounded entirely sincere.
As if he genuinely believed the words coming out of his mouth, as if destroying our marriage was just another business transaction, clean and simple.
“I still love you.
But it’s been a long time, and I’ve made the decision to stop wasting both of our times.
We’ve tried.
We’ve waited.
Five years of failure is enough.” He paused, and something harder entered his expression, a coldness that made my skin crawl.
“And I want a child, Elena.
Not when you’re forty.
Now.” The word felt physical.
It landed right in the center of my chest, knocking the air straight out of my lungs.
My vision blurred at the edges, darkness creeping in like a vignette.
“Failure…” I repeated, my lips barely moving.
The word tasted like poison on my tongue.
I looked at the man I had spent my entire twenties supporting, the man whose surname I wore like a badge of honor, the man I’d stood beside through every business setback and family crisis.
I’d been there when his first venture nearly bankrupted him.
I’d held his hand through his father’s heart attack.
I’d sacrificed job offers in other cities to stay by his side.
“Is that what I am to you?
A failure?” He sighed, a slight, impatient puff of air through his nose, as if I were being deliberately obtuse, as if I were missing some obvious point.
“Emotionally?
No.
Biologically?
Yes.” I choked on my breath, a harsh, sobbing sound breaking from my throat.
The clinical detachment in his voice shredded what remained of my composure.
“You arrogant, heartless…” “Don’t,” he said.
His voice didn’t get loud, but it turned razor-sharp, cutting through my insult before I could finish it.
“Don’t make this emotional.
It’s not.” He straightened, squaring his shoulders like he was preparing for a board meeting, like this was just another negotiation.
“This is about logic.
About legacy.
I need an heir.
I need someone who can carry the Sinclair name.
You can’t, so I’m adjusting.” “Adjusting,” I breathed out.
I looked around the kitchen… at the marble countertops we’d chosen together, at the custom cabinets I’d spent weeks selecting, at the home we’d built from nothing.
Half expecting someone to jump out and tell me this was some twisted birthday prank.
My birthday.
“Graham, look at me.
I’m your wife.” “And?” he challenged coolly, leaning his palms flat against the marble island, tilting his head slightly in that condescending way that made my blood boil.
The gesture was so familiar, so characteristic of the man he’d become… or perhaps had always been.
“That means I should sacrifice my future because of your defective womb?” My whole body stilled.
The trembling stopped.
Every muscle in my frame went completely rigid as the words settled into the space between us like poison gas.
Defective?
He’d called me defective.
I stared at him… at the sharp jawline I used to kiss every morning, at the man I had called my soulmate in front of God and our families, and for the very first time in ten years, I saw absolutely nothing human in his eyes.
There was no affection.
No regret.
No recognition of the woman standing before him, the woman who had sacrificed her own career ambitions to support his.
Just cold, hard calculation.
The same look he gave quarterly reports and profit margins.
My mouth felt like it was full of ash.
My chest was so tight I could only take small, shallow sips of air, each one burning as it went down.
“You never even considered adoption,” I said, my voice dropping into a ragged whisper.
The suggestion hung between us, fragile as spun glass.
“Or surrogacy…
we haven’t even talked about surrogacy yet, Graham.
There are options.
So many options.” “I want a child that carries my blood, Elena,” he said, his face hard as granite.
No room for discussion, no willingness to compromise.
“And surrogacy is not an option.
If your womb can’t work now, then there’s a high chance it would fail anyway, and I’m tired of failures.” He crossed his arms over his chest, a barrier between us.
“I’m not putting my genetic material into a lab just to watch it break down.” I shook my head, my eyes wide as I stared at the stranger standing in my husband’s clothes, wearing my husband’s face.
When had he become this person?
Or had he always been this way, and I’d simply been too in love to see it?
“I can’t believe…
I can’t believe you’re saying this to me.” “I need to explore other options, Elena,” he continued, completely ignoring my shock, as if I hadn’t spoken at all.
As if my pain was just background noise, irrelevant to his plans.
“Other options?” I stepped closer to the island, my hands shaking so badly I had to grip the edge of the counter to keep myself upright.
The cold marble bit into my palms.
“Can you hear yourself speak, Graham?
Other options?
What does that even mean?” I stopped.
The room suddenly felt incredibly cold, as if someone had opened all the windows to the winter night.
A horrible, sickening realization crawled up from the pit of my stomach, turning my blood to ice.
I looked at the calm, relaxed way he was standing, the lack of guilt on his face, the absence of any discomfort.
This wasn’t a sudden decision.
This wasn’t a wine-fueled outburst.
This was planned.
Calculated.
“There’s someone else,” I whispered.
It wasn’t a question.
The certainty of it hit me like a physical blow, stealing what little breath I had left.
“Isn’t there?” He didn’t answer.
He didn’t blink.
He just kept those gray eyes fixed on mine, completely unbothered by the accusation, as if I’d merely commented on the weather.
His silence was damning, more telling than any confession.
But the silence was enough.
It was louder than any confession he could have shouted.
It filled the kitchen, pressed against my eardrums, confirmed every terrible suspicion blooming in my mind.
“You stupid piece of shit,” I gasped, the rage finally breaking through the numbness, hot and violent, flooding my veins with adrenaline.
My whole body began to shake again, but this time with fury rather than grief.
“You have another woman right now, don’t you?
You already have her.” My voice rose to a near-scream, echoing off the high ceilings.
“Why didn’t you say so all these years?
Why did you let me keep going to those clinics?
Why did you let me lie on those tables and pump myself full of hormones if you already had someone else?
Why did you let me think it was my fault?” “Because I thought something might happen,” Graham said, his voice entirely even, without a hint of shame or remorse.
As if he’d done me a favor by waiting, by giving me a chance.
“But now I know I should have done this a long time ago.
I waited too long out of sentimentality.” I laughed.
It was a loud, ugly, disjointed sound that scratched my throat raw.
The sound of something breaking, something that could never be repaired.
“Sentimentality.
Wow.
Thank you, Graham.
Thank you for your immense sacrifice.
How noble of you.” He walked around the island, his bare feet making a soft sticking sound against the floor where the frosting had spread.
He stopped right in front of me, his tall frame blocking out the light from the rest of the kitchen, casting me in shadow.
Even now, he used his physical presence to dominate, to intimidate.
“But that doesn’t change the fact that you’re my wife,” he said, his voice softening just a fraction, reaching into that old reservoir of charm he used to possess, back when I’d thought he actually loved me.
Back when I’d believed every word that came out of his mouth.
“And I still love you, Elena.
No matter what happens.
You have to believe that.” He lifted his hand, his long fingers reaching out toward my wet cheek, his touch familiar and warm, the same hand that had held mine at the altar.
The same hand that had wiped away happy tears on our wedding day.
I flinched back so hard my spine rattled against the cabinets behind me.
The handles dug into my back, but the pain was nothing compared to the revulsion coursing through me.
“Don’t touch me.
Don’t you dare touch me, you bastard.” He lowered his hand slowly, his expression shifting back into that cold, stony indifference, the mask sliding back into place.
The brief moment of softness vanished as if it had never existed.
“I’m sure you’ll understand once you calm down.
I need an heir.
My mother has been asking questions every single Sunday, and my father is growing impatient with the legacy.” He straightened his shoulders, all business again.
“The family needs this.” “And what if I say no?” I asked, my voice steadying, my chin lifting even as the tears kept falling, hot and relentless.
I wouldn’t cower.
Not anymore.
“What if I tell you to go to hell, Graham?
What if I don’t give you your little arrangement?
What if I fight you?” He leaned in closer, his face inches from mine, his breath smelling faintly of the premium steak we had just shared, the birthday dinner that now felt like a cruel joke.
The intimacy of the proximity made my stomach turn.
He looked me dead in the eye, and I saw nothing there.
Nothing at all.
No love.
No regret.
No humanity.
“Then we divorce,” he said, each word distinct, heavy, and final.
A pronouncement.
A sentence.
“I’ll find someone else.
Someone fertile.
And this entire five-year experiment will be written off as a regret.” He turned on his heel, his back broad and unbothered as he began to walk out of the kitchen.
He took three paces toward the grand hallway, his silhouette dark against the amber light of the living room, moving with the same confident stride he always had.
As if he’d just concluded a successful business meeting.
As if he hadn’t just destroyed everything we’d built.
Then he stopped.
He didn’t turn his whole body around, just tilted his head back over his shoulder to look at me one last time.
The light caught the side of his face, highlighting the sharp angle of his cheekbone, the set of his jaw.
The face I’d loved for so long, now belonging to a stranger.
“You have until Friday to decide.”