Then he turned to glare at me like I had committed some unforgivable crime.
“Happy now? You’ve caused enough trouble!”
He scooped Chloe into his arms and stormed out.
I gritted through the pain, trembling as I said:
“Ethan Miller, if you walk out that door today, we’re finished.”
His steps faltered—but he never turned back.
Clenching my jaw, I pushed myself up. One of his buddies looked guilty.
“Sophia, maybe I should drive you to the hospital. Ethan—”
Before he could finish, I glanced at my bleeding arm and laughed.
Even an outsider cared about me more than my husband did—who had just carried someone else away without a glance back.
I shook my head. “No need. I’ll manage.”
So I limped out, hailed an Uber, and went to the hospital myself.
Every bandage stung, my whole body trembling.
Just then, my phone buzzed with a notification.
It was Chloe’s new social media post:
[Compensation from my champ. Look how happy we are as a family of three!]
In the picture, a Maltese sat in the middle, with Ethan and Chloe smiling behind it.
Yes, they looked just like a family of three.
I gave it a like.
A second later, Ethan called.
“Sophia, what’s that supposed to mean? I just bought Chloe a puppy, why the sarcasm?”