The company had a power outage, and I bought several boxes of cooling patches under the scorching sun.

After drinking water and returning, I saw my husband carefully placing the last cooling patch on his idealized first love's head.

"Scott Carter, give it to Melissa Jackson, I know I don't deserve it, and I don't want you to divorce because of me, but I'm just afraid the two-month baby in my belly might miscarry from heatstroke."

Barbara Brown pretended to be sad and wiped her tears.

Scott held her happily, spinning around like a young guy hearing he'd be a dad for the first time, "Are you serious?"

The woman also shyly lowered her head, too embarrassed to speak.

"I only tested yesterday, you never use protection, anyone would get pregnant..."

As soon as she finished speaking, she seemed to suddenly remember something, bowed deeply and apologized: "Melissa, I'm sorry, I didn't mean you can't get pregnant, I know you were pregnant, but that baby wasn't lucky enough to be born, and it's not my fault."

When I was eight months pregnant, Scott's rival broke into our home, but he left with Barbara first, I was left alone and got stabbed.

The baby was already formed when delivered, and I could never get pregnant again because of it.

Before I could respond, Barbara suddenly knelt on the ground, "Sorry sister, I said the wrong thing again, I'm too stupid, I apologize, please don't hurt my baby!"

She cried with tears streaming down, but her eyes were full of provocation.

The next second, Scott slapped me hard without holding back.

"Melissa, I warn you, Barbara is telling the truth, you couldn't keep your own baby, don't blame her for it!"

"The fever couldn't be controlled, who knew you'd face this after we left, you can only blame your own bad luck!"

I smiled bitterly.

Barbara's so-called fever was just a slightly higher temperature than normal, but Scott got extremely nervous.

But when I was rushed to the hospital with heavy bleeding and called him to sign the critical condition notice, he said I was faking.

Employees whispered nearby:

"Getting pregnant before marriage is a joke, she tried to use the baby to force Scott into marriage, now she's using divorce as leverage, it's always shameful."

"Someone from a small town can't compare to Scott's idealized first love."

Scott obviously heard these words, his gaze falling on my swollen, red cheek, just about to speak when Barbara cried out pitifully: "Scott, my stomach hurts so bad, it's too hot here."

Scott turned, scooped her up by the waist, and left the company, never looking at me once.

After he left, someone currying favor with Barbara handed me thick documents to revise.

The staff watched the show silently with knowing eyes.

They all knew that even as Mrs. Carter, I couldn't outweigh a single word from Barbara.

They whispered behind my back: I was a low-class gold digger, while Barbara was the Browns' heiress—Scott's idealized first love.

I begged Scott to defend me, but he just frowned impatiently.

"Melissa, I married you. What more could you want?"

Working late into the night, I'd just left the office when Scott's message arrived:

"Barbara wants mangoes. Get them back within half an hour."

It was already 11:30. Scott didn't care why I wasn't home by 11, or where to find mangoes this late.

He only cared that Barbara craved mangoes.

I searched over four hours, legs aching, before finding Barbara's mangoes.

The cab driver kept eyeing me in the rearview, asking in broken Mandarin: "Young lady, heading home so late?"

Trying to stay calm, I texted Scott—only to see a red exclamation mark.

His last message thirty minutes prior: "Melissa, tantrums aren't cute. Barbara's upset about the mangoes. Don't come back if you refuse."

The driver kept talking. Growing terrified, I frantically called Scott—every call rejected.

The next second, Barbara updated her social media feed:

"A man doing early education is so hot! Baby's got a great dad!"

Scott wore our couple pajamas in the photo, gently reading Barbara a picture book.

My disappointment in Scott paled against this raw fear.

Remembering recent news reports, I bit my lip and unblocked someone to call:

"Hubby, sent you the license plate. Almost home—no need to rush."

Silence. Just as panic set in, he spoke:

"Wife... I've tracked your location. Don't lie about going to your parents' home again."

"Wherever you are, I'll bring you home."

......

Next morning, opening the door, I saw Scott carefully rubbing stretch mark oil on Barbara.

Barbara pouted: "Scott, I'm not like Melissa. I won't get gross stretch marks."

Scott pinched her cheek: "Precaution. You'd hate ruining your looks."

"You're suffering through pregnancy. I won't tolerate your unhappiness."

My hand froze on the doorknob.

I'd never received such care.

During my pregnancy, Scott would mutter to friends seeing me:

"Someone like Melissa? Her only use is a womb."

"Melissa, didn't you want a divorce? Why are you back?"

Scott curled his lips mockingly. "Always putting on an act for others."

His gaze fell on the mangoes I carried. "Since you're here, it's not too late. Go cut these in the kitchen for Barbara."

Barbara put on a magnanimous smile. "Melissa, don't quarrel with Victor over me! Nothing happened—we just share a child."

"You should know Victor stayed up all night worrying about you, reading me bedtime stories!"

I ignored her, turning toward the stairs to pack. Behind me, Barbara suddenly started vomiting.

Scott's expression darkened. He summoned the family doctor while bodyguards forced the remaining mangoes into my mouth.

I struggled violently. Red rashes erupted across my skin as suffocating tightness gripped my chest.

Scott watched coldly, his voice devoid of warmth: "So it was you who tampered with the mangoes."

"Lock her in the basement."

The doctor urged Scott to hospitalize me for allergic reaction.

He merely scoffed: "Allergies won't kill her. Serves her right for scheming out of jealousy."

When I awoke in the hospital, Scott sat beside me—his unbuttoned collar revealing love bites.

He grasped my hand. "Melissa, I didn't know about your allergy. I thought you meant to harm Barbara's baby."

"Having lost one child already... I couldn't risk it again. You understand?"

"I'll believe you first—if you promise not to hurt Barbara or the child."

I withdrew my hand calmly.

"Scott, I don't care anymore. I just want the divorce."

His expression twisted instantly.

"Must you be so petty? Half the office uses cooling patches."

"I gave Barbara one—and you've held a grudge since."

"She even asked me to check on you! As Mrs. Carter, shed that provincial mindset. Stop coveting everything you see."

I stared at him, then suddenly laughed.

Even now, he thought I'd divorce him over a cooling patch.

Scott snorted and strode from the ward without looking back.

......

During my hospital days, Scott never contacted me—yet flooded his social media feed with pregnancy photoshoots.

When I'd been pregnant, I'd begged him to share photos. He'd always refused, calling it undignified.

Now he'd done every single thing with Barbara.

I chuckled dryly.

The difference between love and its absence is truly stark.

The day I was discharged from the hospital, I went straight to the office.

Before even entering, I heard employees celebrating:

"After all the twists and turns, it's our Scott and his idealized first love who ended up together! What a perfect match—I'm totally shipping them."

"A talented man and a beautiful woman—it's like fiction come true. I always knew it couldn't be some country bumpkin paired with a domineering CEO."

"Just wonder when they'll marry. I'd love to see that world-class wedding Scott once promised."

When Scott and I married, there was nothing—just a symbolic certificate.

Yet he'd long planned a grand wedding for Barbara.

Fine by me.

I pushed through the crowd and handed Scott the divorce papers.

He recognized them instantly, expression shifting. Before he could speak, Barbara cut in:

"Scott, is Melissa bringing this up publicly to force promises from you?"

"Afraid my baby might threaten her position?"

The moment she spoke, Scott's tension dissolved into a mocking smirk. "Melissa, don't push your luck. We'll register the child under your name. That should satisfy you."

I ignored him, eyes locked on Barbara's necklace. "Hand it over."

Scott frowned, shielding her. "I gave it to her. Just a cheap necklace—I'll buy you another!"

Before he finished, Barbara grabbed scissors and snipped the cord. "Melissa, don't be mad! I'll return it!"

She hurled the cherished keepsake pendant at me.

I lunged to catch it, but Barbara tripped me. I watched it shatter before my eyes.

Grandma said before dying: "As long as this pendant exists, I'm with you."

Now it was gone. Grandma would never return.

Scott froze seeing my face, then offered: "Barbara didn't mean it. It's just a pendant. I'll give you a pricier one."

I shoved him away, hatred blazing.

That necklace was in my safe. Only he knew the code.

"That was Grandma's only keepsake. Priceless. Money can't replace it."

"Scott, no negotiations. Sign now, or I'll sue."

He snapped. "Whatever!"

Grabbing Barbara's hand, he walked out without looking back.

I gathered every shard into my bleeding palm, numb to the pain.

Slowly I stood, ignoring the whispers.

Walked out of the building.

Scott. We're done forever.