When I left St. Agnes Private Hospital, my lower abdomen was still cramping.

The nurse told me I should stay overnight.

I refused.

She looked at my face, and her voice softened. "Miss Monroe, at least let a family member pick you up. You just had a procedure. You shouldn't go home alone."

Family.

My fingers tightened around the strap of my bag.

I had no family left. Five years ago, I thought Ethan Whitmore would become my family. Looking back now, a man who found my pregnancy disgusting could never have been that.

"My driver is outside," I said.

That was a lie.

I called a car myself.

The driver glanced at me several times through the rearview mirror. Maybe I looked too pale. I wrapped my coat tighter around myself and tried to sit upright. Outside the window, Manhattan glittered in the dark, too bright for a night like this.

My phone lit up.

It was not Ethan.

It was an automated follow-up reminder from the hospital.

I stared at the cold line of text and almost laughed.

My body would remember this without any reminder.

The baby was gone.

I had signed the consent form with my own hand.

But Ethan had forced that pen into my life.

He had stood at the door of the hospital room, not even stepping all the way inside. White shirt, gray trousers, cuffs immaculate. He looked at my stomach as if he were looking at something stained.

"Ava," he said, "if you still want to be with me, take care of it."

I had cried and asked him, "It's your child too."

He frowned.

Not with pain.

With disgust.

"Pregnancy is dirty," he said. "I can't stand it."

I stopped asking.

Back then, I still thought he was sick.

Everyone who knew Ethan knew about his severe obsession with cleanliness. He did not shake hands. The first thing he did when he came home was shower. His phone was disinfected three times a day. His dishes were kept in a separate UV cabinet. He rarely kissed me.

He said kissing meant exchanging bacteria.

He said the smell of meat reminded him of blood.

He said long hair shed too easily.

He said the smell of disinfectant in hospitals gave him headaches.

So I cut my hair. I gave up medical research. I followed his vegetarian diet for five years. I trained myself to be clean, quiet, and convenient.

I thought that was love.

Or at least, I thought that was what I had chosen to give for love.

When the car stopped outside Whitmore Tower, I opened the door and nearly lost my balance. The doorman recognized me at once.

"Miss Monroe, do you need help?"

I shook my head.

"I'm fine."

My voice sounded as if it belonged to someone else.

The elevator to the penthouse was silent. Its mirrored walls reflected my face back at me, colorless and hollow. I placed a hand over my abdomen. It looked flat. It had never really shown.

Still, it felt empty.

So empty I could barely stand.

The elevator doors opened.

I thought the apartment would be empty.

Ethan had told me he had a private meeting after the board dinner and might come home late. I planned to use the time to clean myself up, change my clothes, and wash away every trace of the hospital.

He hated hospitals.

He hated blood.

And he would hate me like this.

But the moment I stepped inside, I heard laughter.

A woman's laughter.

Bright. Easy. Careless in the way only a woman who knew she was cherished could be careless.

I stopped in the entryway.

The living room lights were dim, with only the warm lamp beside the bar turned on. Ethan sat on the sofa, his tie loosened, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Chloe Reed sat beside him with one leg tucked under her, holding a can of sparkling water. Her heels lay on the floor.

She was always like that.

More at ease in Ethan's home than I had ever been.

I did not speak.

Maybe I was too tired. Maybe they had not heard the elevator. I stood in the shadow of the entry hall, one hand against the cold wall, and heard Chloe say lazily, "So she really did it?"

Ethan's voice was flat. "Yes."

"You're ruthless." Chloe laughed softly. "She loves you that much? You tell her to get rid of the baby, and she actually does it."

My breath stopped.

Ethan said nothing.

Then Chloe asked, "But I'm curious, Ethan. When I was pregnant with your child, why didn't you find that disgusting?"

The words slid into my ear like a needle.

My fingers tightened against the wall.

She had been pregnant with Ethan's child.

Ethan did not deny it.

After a few seconds, he said, "You're different."

Four words.

So soft.

So clear.

Chloe seemed pleased. "I'm different? How? I'm a woman. So is she. I can, but she can't?"

Ethan's voice remained calm.

"She can't."

The pain in my abdomen sharpened again.

Not the physical cramping from the procedure. This was colder. Deeper. Something that spread from the bones.

Chloe set down her drink and drew out the words. "So if you ever wanted a child, it would be with me?"

Ethan did not answer right away.

Then he said, "If there has to be a child, it should come after you."

I closed my eyes.

So it was not that he could not accept children.

It was not that he could not accept pregnancy.

He simply could not accept mine.

I remembered the doctor asking me if I was sure before the procedure. My phone had been in my palm the entire time. I had been waiting for Ethan's message.

Even one sentence would have been enough.

I'm with you.

But all he sent was:

Get it done before you come back. Don't bring the hospital smell home.

Even then, I made excuses for him.

He has a condition.

He cannot control it.

Now I knew he controlled it perfectly.

Just not for me.

Chloe nudged Ethan's trouser leg with her foot, amused. "Who said I want to have your child? I treat you like my best friend, and you want to sleep with your best friend?"

Ethan gave a low laugh.

I knew that laugh.

He had never laughed at me like that.

Not politely. Not indulgently for a moment before turning away. This was real. Warm. Private.

"Don't pretend," he said.

Chloe cursed at him playfully.

The air between them was too natural, as if they were lovers who did not need to hide.

And I stood by the door like a stranger who had wandered into someone else's home.

Chloe said again, "What if she really marries your brother? Didn't you tell her to marry Adrian?"

My heart dropped.

So they had talked about that too.

Ethan gave a cold laugh.

"Her?"

He paused, as if the idea itself was absurd.

"She would never be able to leave me."

For a moment, all five years of my life looked like a joke.

He was so certain.

Certain enough that he did not need to see my pain.

In Ethan's eyes, I would cry, plead, compromise, wash my hands until the skin cracked, give up anything because he told me to.

So of course he believed I would not leave.

Even after he made me lose my child.

Even after he placed another woman above me.

Even after he admitted, with his own mouth, that I would never be his exception.

I looked down at my hands.

There was still a needle mark on the back of one hand. The edge of the medical tape had left my skin red. My knuckles were rough from years of disinfectant. Whenever Ethan noticed, he told me to use a fragrance-free hand cream.

A woman's hands should not look so damaged, he said.

But my hands had become this way because of him.

How stupid I had been.

In the living room, Chloe laughed again.

"Don't be so sure," she said. "Women can be scary when they snap."

Ethan replied without hesitation.

"Ava won't."

He sounded bored.

"She loves me."

I had loved him.

That much was true.

I had loved the young man who saved me in an alley. I had loved the way he draped his coat over my shoulders. I had loved the rare softness in his eyes when he reached for me in a crowd.

But five years later, that man was gone.

Or maybe he had never existed.

I stepped back from the entryway.

Quietly.

They did not notice.

When the elevator doors closed behind me, I realized I had not been breathing. I leaned against the cold wall, my fingers trembling so badly my phone almost slipped from my hand.

The screen lit up.

Adrian Whitmore's name was there in my contacts.

Three days ago, he had sent me a document.

Not a love letter.

Not a threat.

A marriage agreement.

He had said that if I ever wanted to leave Ethan, he could give me a legal, safe identity that the Whitmore family could not easily touch.

At the time, I thought it was absurd.

Marry Ethan's brother.

Marry the eldest Whitmore son in a wheelchair, the man outsiders called useless behind closed doors.

It sounded like another abyss.

Now I understood that no choice could be more absurd than staying with Ethan.

The call connected quickly.

Adrian's voice was low and steady, as if he had known I would call.

"Ava."

My breathing was ragged.

He did not rush me.

He simply waited.

After a long time, I managed to speak.

"Does your offer still stand?"

There was one second of silence.

"It does."

My throat hurt.

"I agree."

Saying those two words did not make me feel free. It felt more like something inside me had torn open. Or maybe someone had finally pulled me up from underwater.

Adrian's voice remained steady.

"Where are you now?"

"Downstairs," I said. "At Ethan's building."

"I'll send someone."

"No." I looked at my reflection in the elevator doors and slowly straightened my back. "I have one condition."

"Tell me."

I looked up toward the penthouse.

The lights were still on. Ethan was still inside, sitting with the woman he could truly tolerate, certain I would never leave.

Suddenly, I did not want to cry.

"Do not tell Ethan I'm the bride until the wedding day."

Adrian was silent for a moment.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"That will make things ugly."

I smiled faintly.

My voice was quiet and cold.

"Adrian, things are already ugly."

There was the softest breath on the other end of the line.

Then he said, "All right."

I ended the call and stepped back into the elevator.

This time, I did not go back up.

I pressed the button for the lobby.

As the elevator descended, the numbers changed one by one. My abdomen still hurt. My body felt weak. But for the first time that night, I had strength.

Not because the pain was gone.

Because I finally knew I could not go back.

Ethan said I would never be able to leave him.

He was wrong.

From that night on, I no longer wanted him.

I Married My Ex-Fiancé’s Brother — Chapter 002: The Cigarette He Would Never Touch

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