He Gave Our Bedroom to Her... So I Disappeared

Chapter 7

"As long as I can be with you, I don't care if we're living in a dump," Daniela said, voice trembling. "But our child… our baby is innocent, Michael."

"If Ashlyn really loved you, she'd accept our child like her own. Not sabotage your grandfather's birthday in front of the entire Hudson family—humiliating you like that!"

"A woman like her—"

Michael's expression turned ice cold.

He cut her off, voice sharp and emotionless.

"And who are you to judge my wife?"

"I used to think you were sensible, Daniela. But clearly, you've forgotten your place."

He took the boarding pass from the airline agent and looked down at her like a stranger.

"No matter how many children I have outside this marriage, Ashlyn will always be my only wife."

"And when you move out of the villa—make sure you take everything. I don't want Ashlyn to see a single trace of you when she comes home."

Daniela stood there, frozen in place, tears streaming down her cheeks. Then she let out a bitter, broken laugh.

"Wow... Michael, I never thought you'd be even more naive than I am."

"You've hurt Ashlyn so deeply—and you still think she'll come back to you?"

They say no one knows a woman better than another woman, but Michael didn't even flinch.

He walked away without a backward glance.

He knew his wife.

For nine years, no matter how angry Ashlyn got, all it ever took was a heartfelt apology… maybe a gift or two, something she liked—and she'd melt.

But this time felt different.

This time, she hadn't yelled. She hadn't fought.

She'd simply left him the papers.

And he knew—no ordinary gift was going to fix it.

So, after landing overseas, Michael made his first stop: a tattoo parlor.

He pulled out an old sketch—one Ashlyn had drawn for him five years ago—and handed it to the artist.

"I'm in a hurry. No anesthesia."

Seven hours later, he walked out, blood seeping through the white of his shirt. But he didn't wince.

He bought a gift worth tens of millions and ordered 999 pure white roses.

Running on nearly 48 hours without sleep, he drove himself straight to a secluded vineyard estate on the outskirts of London.

All the way down the highway, he rehearsed his apology, over and over, perfecting every word.

Still, no matter how many times he practiced it, the first line never changed.

"Ashlyn, I missed you so much."

And finally, after crossing oceans, shedding blood, and sacrificing sleep—he found her.

But the moment his eyes locked on her, the bouquet slipped from his fingers.

Bathed in the soft glow of a golden sunset, Ashlyn stood in the arms of a tall, impossibly handsome man.

She was smiling.

Truly smiling—light, unburdened, at peace. A kind of happiness he'd never seen on her face.

She giggled as the man fed her fresh grapes off the vine, and she playfully fed him back.

Michael couldn't speak.

All the words he'd prepared vanished.

Only one question made it out.

"Who is he?"

Ashlyn stiffened slightly, just for a moment.

The man next to her—Bryson—pulled her closer and wrapped an arm protectively around her waist.

"You must be Michael," he said, casually. "I've seen your wedding photo with Ashlyn."

He gave Michael a once-over, smirking.

"Didn't expect you to look even worse in person."

Ashlyn let out a soft laugh at the jab, her body relaxing again in Bryson's embrace.

And just like that, Michael felt something crack deep in his chest.

He clenched his fists so tight his nails dug into his palms, drawing blood.

Bryson didn't flinch.

"Since you've come all this way, I'll be polite," he said. "I'm Bryson. Ashlyn's—"

"Bryson," Michael interrupted flatly. "Got it."