The One He Loved Was Never Me Chapter 02
Muffled laughter filtered in from beyond the door.
Megan was laughing. My mother was laughing. Even my usually taciturn father was saying something.
I pretended not to hear. I quietly unwrapped the birthday gift a colleague had brought me from a business trip to London last week.
A pair of small silver earrings. Orchidshaped. Simple design, but beautifully crafted.
It was the only birthday wish I’d received that day.
I’d just carefully lifted them from the box when the bedroom door opened.
Ethan walked in holding a small piece of cake, Megan and my parents trailing behind him with smiles on their faces.
“Emily, we saved this piece just for you! Ethan wouldn’t even let us have more!” Megan hung on his shoulder, blinking playfully.
Ethan attentively speared a small bite of frosting and held it to my lips.
If I hadn’t overheard their conversation in the living room just moments ago, I might have been touched enough to eat it.
But I’d heard every word.
“The cake’s too big—what do we do with the leftovers?” my father had asked.
“Same as always—give the rest to Emily! Megan, finish the fruit on top and then take it to her. That way she won’t nitpick at us again!” My mother’s tone was matteroffact.
I looked at the frosting—gouged and cratered—and the few stray blueberries left on the slice. My chest tightened with a sourness I couldn’t suppress. I turned my head away.
Ethan paused, about to say something.
Then my mother spotted the earring box in my hand. Her eyes lit up. “Isn’t that the pair Megan’s been wanting? She’s been eyeing them in a magazine for ages!”
Without a word, Ethan reached for the box.
I gripped it tight, meeting his gaze headon. “This is my birthday present.”
He blinked.
Megan immediately spoke up, timid and small: “Never mind, never mind. I can’t fly to London to buy them because of my health. But thanks to my sister, I at least get to see them up close—that’s enough for me!”
Ethan’s brow furrowed. Without discussion, he tightened his grip and pried my fingers open, his voice flat: “Emily, be good. Since Megan likes them, just let her have them.”
The pain spread from my fingertips to my chest.
I watched him carefully fasten the earrings on Megan, tilting his head slightly, his fingers gently brushing her hair aside to thread the hooks through her earlobes.
I held out my open palm, voice even. “Since we’re getting divorced, jewelry counts as my personal property. Give them back.”
He froze, then his expression darkened. “Emily, are you done yet?”
Megan nudged his arm, looking aggrieved. “Ethan, go make up with her! If I’m the reason you two are fighting, I’ll feel awful!”
Ethan’s lips pressed into a thin line. He leaned down, wrapped an arm around my waist, and kissed the shell of my ear. “Sweetheart, behave. We’ll have plenty of time—I’ll take you to London myself and buy you another pair.”
I smiled in selfmockery.
The only reason he was being this patient with me was because he was afraid she’d be upset.
The sharp scent of his aftershave mingled with the cloying sweetness of cake, and nausea rose in my throat without warning.
I shoved him away, clutched my chest, and started to retch.
“You’re disgusted by me?”
He stood frozen in disbelief, a sudden ache flaring in his chest.
Seeing me continue to heave, he discarded that theory. His voice softened, tentative: “Why are you suddenly so nauseous out of nowhere? Could it be…?”
I bit down hard on my lip, straightened, and interrupted him flatly: “No. Just something I ate.”
His halfraised eyebrows slowly settled. A flicker of barely perceptible regret passed through his eyes.
He reached over and rubbed my back gently. “If a simple meal makes you this sick, how are you going to handle morning sickness when you’re actually pregnant?”
I straightened my spine, pulling away from his warm hand. My gaze dropped to my own abdomen, and I gave a thin smile.
That was one thing he truly needn’t worry about.
A baby—there would never be one. Not anymore.
My mother, seeing my terrible color, sighed and came over to steady me, though her mouth wouldn’t stop. “With a stomach like yours, why do you insist on fighting Megan over shrimp?”
Right on cue, Megan pressed a hand to her chest and let out a soft moan.
Ethan spun around instantly. “What’s wrong?”
My father stood up. “Is it happening again?”
My mother released my hand and turned toward Megan—reflexive, instinctive.
No one spared me a thought.
The sudden loss of support sent me stumbling. I nearly fell.
My mother reached over—but only to take the earring box from my hand. The gesture was as casual as breathing, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“Such expensive things are wasted on you! Megan is already feeling so terrible—just let her have them.”
My father nodded approvingly from beside her. “Megan’s birthday gala is next week. Those earrings will go perfectly with the gown Ethan had custommade for her in Italy!”
A custom gown.
Five years of marriage, and Ethan had never once taken me shopping or helped me try on a dress.
But every year before Megan’s birthday, without fail, he accompanied her to that atelier in Beverly Hills—measurements, fabric selection, fittings.
I gripped the corner of the desk to keep from collapsing. My fingertips were white.
I laughed out loud.
Ethan’s gaze flickered. His feet, already carrying him toward Megan, paused for half a second.
The next instant, Megan let out another pitiful little whimper.
His brow creased. Naturally, effortlessly, he rubbed her back and spoke without room for argument: “Emily, just go to bed. Megan’s not feeling well. She needs someone with her.”