Chapter 4My Husband’s Yacht Proposal Backfired

The photo was a tactical nuke.

Tangled silk sheets, limbs intertwined, and a profile I knew better than my own buried in the crook of a woman’s neck.

The text beneath it was designed to kill:

Nina, Damian is with me now. He said he’s going to take care of me and our child. After all, he’s tired. He’s tired of coming home to a cold, empty woman who can't even hold onto a pregnancy.

Cold?

I stared at the word until it blurred. I wanted to laugh.

So that was how he described me to the world.

It made sense. Three years ago, when I had tripped and tumbled down the stairs, covered in blood and clutching my phone to call him, he’d used the same tone.

The background noise on his end had been a thumping bassline and laughter. He’d sounded annoyed when he picked up.

"Nina, can you just give me one night of peace? It’s Kayla’s birthday, the whole team is out celebrating. Don't be a buzzkill."

That was the night we lost the baby.

And he was out buying lemon drops for another woman.

The panic and raw desperation he’d shown while carrying Kayla out of the house just now... that was a look I had never seen on his face while I was lying in a pool of my own blood.

He wasn't incapable of warmth. He just wasn't warm for me.

I wasn't "incapable" of having a family. He just didn't want one with me.

The weight I’d been carrying for years—the guilt, the "what-ifs"—suddenly shattered.

Good. Let the last of the embers burn out.

I took a deep breath and dialed Beth.

"Beth, are you awake?"

Her voice boomed through the speaker, loud and sharp.

"Awake? I’m livid! I saw Scott’s car at the hospital! I’m about to go down there and give those two a piece of my mind. How are you? Don't you dare sit there alone."

"I’m fine," I said, and surprisingly, I meant it.

"I just wanted to ask... when you want to take out a pair of narcissists with zero mess... what’s the cleanest way to do it?"

There was a three-second silence on the other end, followed by a sound that could only be described as predatory glee.

"You’re finally ready? Thank God. Hold on, let me get my notebook. Class is in session."

I hung up, opened my laptop, and typed 24-hour white-glove moving service into the search bar.

Booked. Paid. Confirmed.

Less than an hour later, three men in blue jumpsuits were at my door.

I led them to Damian’s walk-in closet and pointed at the rows of bespoke suits and limited-edition sneakers.

"Everything," I said. "Pack it all. Every shoe, every watch, every scrap of paper."

"And the desk in the study. I want it gone."

They were efficient, professional, and silent.

In ninety minutes, the penthouse—a place once filled with his ego—was half-empty.

As they were maneuvering his massive mahogany desk toward the elevator, the front door swung open.

Damian stood there, looking haggard and drained.

He froze, eyes widening as he saw the chaos in the hallway, his prized desk hovering mid-air.

"What the hell is this? Who authorized this!"

He lunged forward, trying to block the movers.

The men stopped and looked back at me. I was standing in the center of the living room, calm as a summer lake.

Damian’s gaze snapped to mine, his voice shaking.

"Nina, have you lost your mind?"

I didn't answer him. I just looked at the movers.

"Keep going."

They stepped around him like he was an inconvenient piece of litter.

Damian stood paralyzed, glaring at me.

I reached for the intercom by the door and signaled the front desk downstairs.

"Starting now," I told the security guard, "this gentleman and his belongings are no longer permitted on the premises. Revoke his key fobs and clear his name from the guest list."