My Water Broke During His Ex's Hostage Crisis

Chapter 2

My first encounter with Gavin Sullivan happened high up in the mountains, above the snowline of the mountaineering club.

I had just escaped the grind of my corporate job at an internet company, where the endless 9-to-9 workdays had drained me dry. Every weekend, I fled the concrete jungle with my hiking pack, craving the solitude above 2,000 meters. That's where I found my only peace.

Gavin was a finance elite, but he unexpectedly showed up during the club's second-year recruitment.

The first time I saw him, he stood by the bulletin board in a worn windbreaker, studying the trail map. I took a second glance—his Patek Philippe watch clashed absurdly with his gear.

We became regular climbing partners after that. Every Saturday at 4 a.m., his black Range Rover was parked outside my apartment. Inside, there were always two cups of black coffee—one with sugar, one without.

Together, we conquered peak after peak, sharing energy bars and life dreams above the sea of clouds.

On our hundredth summit, the sky blazed crimson with the first light of dawn. Gavin suddenly pulled off his gloves, his frostbitten fingers brushing the ice crystals from my lashes.

"Yvonne," he murmured, softer than the mountain wind, "let's give this a try."

No roses, no candlelit dinners. And that suited me just fine.

My father had once chartered an entire yacht on the HP River, setting off fireworks so extravagant that the whole city buzzed—just to win my mother's heart. And then? He forced her to drink bowl after bowl of bitter tonics, desperate for a son, until her delivery bed became her coffin.

Gavin was different. He remembered the dates of my menstrual cramps, stocking my office drawer with heating pads in advance. When I worked late into the night, he'd wait at the convenience store below my office, reading financial reports until 3:01 a.m.

Our wedding was simple—a quick visit to the courthouse followed by boiled fish at our favorite hole-in-the-wall place.

Then came his college friend's wedding banquet.

A drunken groomsman clung to Gavin, sobbing like a child: "Gavin, if Jennifer hadn't gone to Syria, your kid would be old enough to run errands by now."

The chandelier's glare felt blinding.

I stared at the greasy oil beads floating on my lobster salad, counting them one by one.

In the taxi home, I rolled down the window to let the night air scatter the smell of alcohol.

"Gavin," I said, my voice tangled with the growl of the engine, "my greatest skill is cutting my losses in time."

The rearview mirror fractured his face into neon-lit fragments.

After that night, "Jennifer Carter" became a name that never existed.

Until today, three years later, when she stormed back into our lives, reeking of gunpowder and war.