Chapter 3The Missing Husband

Everyone in the room saw the message.

A heavy, awkward silence fell over us.

Dr. Cole didn't say a word. He just turned off my phone, handed it back, and quietly instructed the intern to keep a close eye on me. The intern nodded and said something I couldn't quite hear. A few of the other staff chuckled, and Dr. Cole's ears turned a little red before he quickly turned and left.

My private room was a lonely place. The intern would pop in periodically, but for the most part, my only companions were the beeping machines. That’s how I spent my birthday.

On my birthday, my condition took a turn for the worse. I was rushed back into surgery.

The only contact from Mark was a ten-dollar Venmo transfer that morning with the message "hbd." Then, silence. His social media profile was a blank line—he'd blocked me again.

I spent the entire day in the ICU. Dr. Cole checked on me constantly, his face growing more weary with each visit.

Later, when I was a little more lucid, I saw him standing outside the glass wall of my room. He was holding up a small cupcake with a single candle. I watched him mouth the words slowly, carefully, so I could understand.

"Happy. Birthday. Sienna. When you're better, you can have this."

I managed a faint smile and a determined nod.

Finally, just before midnight, my condition stabilized and they moved me back to my room. Dr. Cole was there waiting, the candle on the cupcake lit. He asked me to make a wish.

Without a moment's hesitation, I mouthed the word. "Divorce."

He paused, then gently blew out the candle for me. "The universe says: wish granted," he said softly.

I never ate the cake, but the fact that he remembered was more than enough.

The next day, feeling a bit stronger, I reached for my phone to call my office and arrange for my maternity leave. But there was another birthday message waiting for me. From Anna.

It was a video.

A spectacular fireworks display over the ocean, with drones spelling out "Happy Birthday To You" in the night sky.

The caption read: "Oops, wrong person, sis! This was from when Mark threw me a birthday party. Isn't it pretty?"

She followed it up with a series of photos.

They were from a private maternity photoshoot Mark had arranged for me. He had convinced me it was a beautiful way to commemorate my pregnancy, that the body was something to be celebrated. So I had agreed.

Now, Anna had submitted those photos to a photography competition. And she hadn't chosen the tasteful, discreet shots. She had chosen the most revealing ones, the ones where my face was clearly visible.

"Sis, your photos won an award! A lot of people were saying your stretch marks are disgusting, though. They just don't have an eye for art, I guess."

Then, as if by "accident," she sent a voice message.

It was Mark's voice.

"To be honest, the comments aren't wrong. Sometimes I look at that belly full of stretch marks and I feel sick, too."

Anna not only won an award with my photos but also a hefty cash prize. Mark's social media, which had been dark for days, was suddenly active again. His entire circle of friends was congratulating Anna, sharing the uncensored photos of me without a second thought.

The moment I "liked" one of the posts, Mark finally contacted me.

He said he was coming back soon to see me and the baby. Then he gave me an order: "It's about time you were discharged anyway. You can go home and look after Anna's cat for a few days."

I simply replied, "Ok."

A few days later, I contacted a divorce lawyer, had the papers drawn up, and sold the condo that was in my name, along with every single thing Mark had ever given me.

I started a new social media account. My bio was simple: "The woman from the award-winning maternity photos." I began posting old videos of Mark and me, telling my side of the story.

It gained traction fast.

The photography association even contacted me, inviting me to be a special guest at Anna’s award ceremony.

As for Mark, he never even showed up for my discharge. The excuse was that he was too busy at the hospital. But Anna had already let it slip to their friends—he was helping her prepare for the ceremony.

The day of the awards was a grand affair. My photos were projected on a massive screen, cycling on a loop. Mark sat in the front row, reserved for family, beaming at Anna with adoration. He was even wearing the tie I had given him.

Anna held her trophy high. "I want to thank my dearest, most beloved friend, Mark Hunter," she gushed. "Without his constant care and support, I wouldn't be where I am today."

Mark walked onto the stage with a bouquet of flowers. They embraced, a deep, meaningful hug. And just as Mark leaned in to kiss the corner of her lips, the doors to the auditorium burst open.

"Mr. Hunter, Ms. Vance," a police officer said calmly. "Please come with us."