Chapter 4My Metric Dropped He Dropped Dead

The drugs were a mercy.

The suffocating tension that had gripped my chest since last night finally dissolved. I slept deeply and dreamlessly on the cold operating table.

When I woke up in the recovery room, my hand instinctually drifted to my stomach. There was only a dull, hollow ache. The life inside was gone.

The pillow beneath my head was damp. I touched my face; I was crying silently.

I asked the nurse for my phone. My text to Benson remained marked as "Read," but there was no reply.

I dialed his number. It rang for an agonizingly long time before the line clicked open.

I heard him clear his throat. When he spoke, his voice was thick, like he had just woken up.

"Hey, Nina. What's wrong?"

[Warning. Affection Metric has dropped to 30%.]

I swallowed the sharp glass in my throat. "Did you not see the message I sent you?"

He sounded genuinely perplexed. "Message? No, my phone's been quiet. What did you send?"

I pulled the phone away from my ear, switching over to Dana's blog on Safari.

[Caught my man's wife trying to cause drama. She sent him a text while he was in the shower, so I deleted it.]

[She’s just a fraud on a mission. Who does she think she is, stressing him out like that?]

I exhaled a long, shaky breath and brought the phone back to my ear. "It's nothing. I must have forgotten to hit send. I just wanted to remind you to come home early."

I could practically hear the tension leave his shoulders. He let out a light laugh.

"You scared me. I know I've been absent lately, baby, and I am so sorry. I promise I will make it up to you at the gala."

"Okay," I whispered, and hung up.

Lying alone in the sterile, fluorescent-lit room, my mind drifted back to the day he proposed.

We were on a rooftop overlooking the bay. His hands had been shaking so violently he could barely get the ring out of the velvet box. Our friends had laughed at him, and he had shouted back, completely unashamed, "You idiots don't understand, you don't have a woman like this!"

Then he had dropped to one knee, looking up at me with a gaze so fiercely sincere it burned.

"Nina Gallagher, I swear to God, I will spend the rest of my life proving I am worthy of you."

He meant it. Back then, the vow was real.

But people change. Vows rot.

If I hadn't posted on that forum... I would have walked into that gala blind. I would have kept loving him, kept trusting him, ready to lay my life down for a ghost.

But there are no "what ifs" in this world.

[Warning. Affection Metric has dropped to 20%.]

I closed my eyes. I called my lawyer, instructed her to draft the divorce papers, and forwarded her a zip file containing every piece of evidence of Benson's infidelity.

Five days later. The Anniversary Gala.

The ballroom was a sea of silk, champagne, and flashing cameras. Benson held my hand in a vice grip, beaming at the crowd as they showered us with congratulations. His smile grew more radiant with every passing minute.

As we navigated the room, my eyes locked onto a familiar face.

Dana. She was wearing a stunning emerald gown, weaving through the elite crowd with practiced ease. She caught my eye, gave me a triumphant smirk, and sauntered directly over to us.

Benson’s grip on my fingers tightened painfully. The smile froze on his face.

Dana plucked a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and winked playfully at Benson.

"Here’s to the happy couple. May you have... everything you deserve."

Benson snatched the crystal glass from her hand, his voice a frantic hiss. "You're pregnant, you can't drink."

Dana pouted, her voice dripping with venomous innocence. "Well, the baby's father won't even claim him in public. If I lose it, I guess nobody would care anyway."

Without waiting for Benson to formulate a response, she turned on her heel and sashayed toward the back terrace.

Benson shot me a panicked, apologetic look. "She's one of the new junior assistants. Doesn't know how to act in these settings. Excuse me."

I gave him a placid nod.

He was sweating. He waited a few agonizing seconds before dropping my hand and muttering something about a catering issue.

I stood perfectly still and watched my husband sprint across the ballroom, chasing after his pregnant mistress.

The sudden spectacle caught the attention of the surrounding guests. Whispers rippled through the crowd.

I smiled calmly, walked up to the podium, and tapped the microphone.

"Ladies and gentlemen," my voice rang out, clear and steady, cutting through the jazz band. "I know these events can get a bit tedious. So, I thought I’d provide some evening entertainment."

I gave a subtle nod to the AV technician at the back of the room.

The massive digital projector behind me flared to life. It bypassed the slideshow of our wedding photos and tapped directly into the live feed of the terrace security cameras.

The ballroom went dead silent.

On the twenty-foot screen, Benson was clutching Dana to his chest, stroking her hair desperately.

"Dana, please, stop crying. It's bad for the baby."

Her shrill, tearful voice echoed through the high-end surround sound speakers.

"You keep talking about the baby! What does it matter if he's yours? You're still married to Nina! My son is going to be a bastard!"

Benson’s face on the screen twisted in agony. "What do you want me to do?"

Dana wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her body against his. "When he's born... we'll tell Nina he's adopted. We'll make her raise him. That way, we can still have our time together, just the two of us. Okay?"

Benson hesitated for three agonizing seconds.

Then, he nodded.

A collective, horrified gasp ripped through the ballroom. Glasses shattered against the marble floor.

[Warning. Affection Metric has dropped to 10%.]

I stepped away from the podium. I signaled the technician to transition the screen from the live feed to the meticulously organized slides of Benson's bank transfers, hotel receipts, and the ultrasound photos.

I walked over to Ellis, Benson's fiercely loyal executive assistant, who was staring at the screen with his mouth open. I pressed a thick manila envelope into his chest. It contained the signed divorce papers and the medical records of my abortion.

Ignoring the cacophony of shouting reporters and scandalized socialites, I walked out the front doors, hailed a black car, and gave the driver the address to a scenic cemetery overlooking the bay. I had purchased the plot three days ago.

I found the smooth granite bench near my designated plot and lay down. The late afternoon sun was surprisingly warm, bathing my face in golden light.

Inside my mind, the System’s alarms were blaring, a deafening, frantic siren.

[Affection Metric at 5%. 4%. 3%. 2%. 1%.]

[Zero.]