His Death Is Not My Fault

One day, shortly after I had experienced a miscarriage, Alan brought me a bowl of chicken soup—and a divorce agreement.

"Sophia's pregnant," he had said. "So let's just leave each other like mature adults do."

Chicken soup had never tasted so bitter in my life. I knew Sophia Mason—he had sponsored her education before.

She was also the one who caused my miscarriage.

I did not cry. I did not throw a fit. I just asked why.

He looked relieved. Then, he looked at me blankly. "The truth is I can't stand you over these seven years. Every time we lie together on our bed, I just can't help but be disgusted by what your body has gone through.

"I know you suffered that because of me. But I can't do it. I can't stop remembering how defiled it is.

"Our kid is gone. We owe each other nothing now—so let's end it here, right now."

So that was it, huh? Hilarious. He had no idea who the "defiled" one was—him.

Seven years ago, I inserted a memory chip into his brain to save him. And now, in three days' time, the chip will cease to function.

He will remember everything… and he will wish he were long dead.

Alan took my silence as an invitation to begin divorce negotiations.

"Don't worry about financial compensation. I won't let you leave empty-handed," he said. "I'll give you a car, the house, and half the money from our joint venture. You won't have to work for the rest of your life."

Oh, he planned to push me out of the company we built together.

A lump rose in my throat. I set the agreement aside. "I… I need time to think."

He frowned.

"Selena, please. Unlike you, Sophia hasn't been with anyone but me. That makes me responsible for her life. I'm her only one," he insisted. "Don't make this harder than it needs to be. I'd hate to see you as an enemy over this."

It was a threat.

I remembered our early days, when we had just started the business. A prospective client once tried to strong-arm me into reshaping a deal for his benefit. Alan smashed a beer bottle against the table the moment the man leaned in and lowered his voice.

This time, the figurative bottle was aimed at me.

"Don't worry. I'll sign it," I said. I did not tell him I meant something else. "At least have a meal with me the day after tomorrow, okay? It's our tenth wedding anniversary."

Alan looked startled. Then he sighed. "Why? There's no point."

He thought I was clinging to him.

"Look, I can't. I promised Sophia I'd take her to the OB-GYN for her checkup that day. But if that's what it takes for you to sign, I'll make time."

As if on cue, Sophia Mason called.

"Alan, my tummy feels funny. I think the baby misses their papa…" she cooed.

What baby? It was only two months