As Alfie walked past me, our shoulders nearly brushed. He did a double take and frowned. “Clarissa? What are you doing here?”
I kept my expression neutral. “I forgot to pick up my test results from my last prenatal checkup.”
He looked like he wanted to say something, but before he could, a nurse called out to him. “Mr. Bowen, please come with me. Your wife needs emergency treatment.”
Alfie didn’t even bother to correct her. Without hesitation, he turned and followed her inside.
I gripped the documents in my hand—the surgical consent form and the divorce papers—and walked into the emergency ward after them.
Inside, the bright lights illuminated the frantic movement of doctors and nurses. Alfie was running back and forth, his face clouded with worry, even as he stood by the payment window, pulling out his wallet with trembling hands.
I watched it all unfold, yet my heart remained still.
Then, as if sensing my gaze, he turned and spotted me.
“Clarissa, about Shirley—” he started, but I cut him off before he could explain.