The Ex-Wife's Escape: From Betrayal to Revenge

Chapter 9

"Mr. Johnson, you're here." The attending physician greeted him respectfully.

Ethan Johnson didn’t spare him a glance, pushing open the door to the VIP ward without hesitation. Inside, Isabella Taylor was touching up her lipstick in front of a mirror. The moment she saw him, her expression shifted into one of fragile vulnerability.

"Ethan..." Her voice trembled as her fingers clutched the edge of the bedsheet.

Ethan stood beside the bed, looking down at her with icy detachment. "You’re pregnant, yet you still run around recklessly?" His tone was frigid. "If anything happens to the baby—"

"I missed you." Isabella suddenly threw herself against him, wrapping her arms around his waist and pressing her cheek against his abdomen. "The nurse said you came and left earlier. I thought—"

When she tilted her head up, her eyes were rimmed red, tears clinging to her lashes. It was a look that would soften anyone’s heart.

Unfortunately, Ethan only frowned. He gripped her chin roughly. "I told you not to appear in front of her."

"But our baby—"

"Enough." He shoved her away. "Focus on resting."

As he turned to leave, Isabella suddenly embraced him from behind. Her slender fingers trailed down the buttons of his shirt, her red lips brushing his ear. "The doctor said... it’s safe during the second trimester..."

Ethan’s breath hitched.

The next second, he pinned her to the hospital bed. The room filled with the sounds of her breathy moans and his rough panting. Outside the door, a nurse who had come to check on the patient flushed and quickly retreated.

At 2 a.m., Ethan stood at the entrance of Riverside Villa. His fingers brushed against the velvet box in his inner pocket—a limited-edition watch Sophia Williams had been talking about for half a year.

The thought that she might still be waiting for him sent a sharp pang through his chest.

"Sophia?" The moment he pushed open the door, his heart plummeted.

The crystal chandelier illuminated the empty living room. On the dining table, an untouched candlelit dinner sat cold, the rose petals wilted.

But the most glaring sight was the red certificate placed at the center.

Ethan staggered forward, collapsing in front of the table. When his eyes landed on the embossed gold letters spelling "Divorce Certificate," the velvet box slipped from his fingers.

Crack.

The watch face shattered like a spiderweb—mirroring the fractures in his heart.

His thumb traced the raised seal on the document, and suddenly, a low, humorless laugh escaped him. How ironic. Just yesterday, they had been discussing starting a family.

"Sir." The elderly butler approached, holding a gift box. "Madam today—"

Ethan looked up numbly. The staff stood in a line, each holding a familiar-looking box—every gift he had ever given Sophia over the years.

"Madam said... she wanted to share her joy with us."

The butler’s words cut like a dull blade. Ethan stared at the gifts, noticing small notes attached to each one. He grabbed the nearest box, Sophia’s elegant handwriting staring back at him:

[2018 Birthday Gift. No longer needed.]

A metallic taste rose in his throat. Frantically, he tore through the rest of the notes until, at the bottom of a jewelry box, his fingers brushed against a slip of paper:

[Ethan Johnson, I watched the surveillance footage from the VIP ward three times.]

His phone rang. The caller ID flashed "Sophia." Hands shaking, he answered.

"Mr. Johnson." An unfamiliar woman’s voice dripped with mockery. "Ms. Williams asked me to relay a message—"

"Congratulations on the divorce."