Chapter 4

For a full forty-eight hours, I drafted and deleted emails to the Icelandic Institute. How was I supposed to tell the director that I had accidentally conceived a child with the man who was about to become my ex-husband? As my fingers hovered over the keyboard, my smartwatch vibrated.

Marcus: The boss wants to see you at the gate.

Since when did Alexander start using his chief special assistant as a mouthpiece?

I saw Alexander leaning casually against his black sedan, the morning light softening his sharp profile, and for a split second, I held my breath. The light traced his jawline, the slight crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he noticed me approaching—it was so unfair that after everything, my pulse still raced at the sight of him.

I quickly averted my gaze, fingers nervously fiddling with my backpack strap as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. Three years of marriage, and my traitorous body still reacted to him like a newlywed. The heat rising in my cheeks, the memory of his touch on my skin—I refused to acknowledge these physiological betrayals. Old habits, I told myself firmly. Just muscle memory, nothing more.

"Elena." He took off his sunglasses, revealing those grey-blue eyes that used to make my knees weak. "Dinner tomorrow. Obsidian. Eight o'clock."

Obsidian. Just the name made my stomach acid churn. It was there, on our anniversary, that I had sat for five hours facing a cold Beef Wellington while Alexander was busy "discussing mergers" with Isabella.

"I'll be there," I heard myself say, the words rushing out before my brain could filter them. This subconscious reaction surprised even me—why be so eager to sit opposite a man who chose Isabella over me every single time?

But hesitation would breed suspicion. Alexander could detect weakness like an AI identifying a bug. If I was going to keep this child—and I did plan to—I had to make a clean break. There was no point if I couldn't hide the pregnancy until our legal ties were thoroughly severed. Alexander Sterling was not the type to let any asset slip through his fingers, let alone an heir. If he found out I was hiding his child...

No. Divorce must come first. Clean. Official. Irreversible.

This dinner had two purposes: First, the divorce. Then, when the Atlantic Ocean separated us, I would decide how to tell him about the baby. If I ever told him.

The crystal chandelier in the restaurant cast razor-sharp shadows on the pristine white tablecloth. Tonight, he had chosen the private booth from our very first date.

As he set down the bottle of expensive red wine, his fingers enveloped my hand—not just grazing it, but truly holding it for the first time in three years.

"About what happened before, there are things I need to explain—"

The booth door was slammed open. Marcus rushed to his side, whispering urgently into his ear. But in the tomb-like silence of the soundproof booth, words like "Isabella," "server crash," and "panic attack" drilled into my ears like a virus.

My heart sank. Of course. Even our last dinner couldn't belong just to us.

Alexander's grip on my hand loosened. He stood up abruptly, his chair making a harsh scraping sound before toppling over with a crash. "What?!"

The room spun. My vision narrowed until all I could see was Alexander's retreating back, his trench coat billowing like a cape.

He paused at the doorway, his gaze darting between Marcus and me—a calculation made in a split second. "Take her to the hospital," he ordered, before disappearing down the corridor.

Then—nothingness.

Snippets of words drifted through the fog:

"...just hypoglycemia..."

"...get her some glucose..."

My eyelids fluttered open to reveal blurred figures—a doctor talking to Marcus at the door. As consciousness returned, panic set in. If they found out about the pregnancy...

The doctor leaned in toward Marcus, dropping her voice to a whisper. "Considering the patient's condit—"

My dry throat tightened. I had to stop her—

Buzz—Buzz—!

Marcus's phone screamed like a fire alarm. He pulled it from his pocket, the caller ID making him snap to attention instantly. "Yes, Mr. Sterling?" A second's pause. His jaw tightened. "Understood. I'm coming right away, sir."

He slapped a black card with no limit onto the doctor's clipboard. "Keep her here until New Year's if you want." As he vanished, the doorframe vibrating in his wake, the doctor's unspoken word "pregnancy" hung suspended in the air.

"Ah, you're awake." She turned to me, oblivious to my frantic heartbeat. "You're about ten weeks along. The baby is healthy, but given your fainting spell..." Her pen tapped on the tablet. "We're keeping you for observation for 48 hours."

She hesitated, glancing at the door. "I didn't mention it to your... associate just now."

I let out a long breath of relief. "No. Please keep it that way."

As the doctor walked out, the hushed voices of nurses drifted in from under the curtain:

" The Sterlings are like royalty—they turned the VIP ward into a presidential suite—flowers, aromatherapy, everything. Mr. Sterling hasn't left her side since admission."

"Doesn't that go without saying? Didn't you see how he carried her through the hall? It was like something out of a drama."

A sigh. "Together ten years, and he still treats her like a bride. My boyfriend can't even remember our anniversary..."

Their words were sharper than any scalpel. There was no doubt—they could only be talking about Alexander and Isabella.

"Of course he's devoted—Mrs. Sterling is finally giving him an heir. She just has to sigh, and Mr. Sterling mobilizes the entire medical team."

Alexander was spoiling Isabella like a queen. I became acutely aware of my manicured, unpolished fingernails against the starched hospital sheets—I was the Mrs. Sterling no one remembered to care for.

After two nights of observation with no complications, I was discharged.

Walking out of the hospital's automatic doors, my first stop was the post office to mail the confirmation of the divorce decree. As I arranged for Alexander's copy to be sent—deliberately delayed by three days—a calm satisfaction settled in my chest.

I imagined that by the time this document landed on his massive desk, watching the clerk stamp the postmark, I might already be in Iceland. Let the arrogant Alexander Sterling search every corner of the world. But even his data network had blind spots—and I had just become someone outside the blind spot.

The envelope disappeared into the mailbox with a soft thud—three years of love, lies, and loneliness, now condensed into a single document, would follow my shadow across the ocean.