Love in the Eye of the Storm

I was pregnant. On my way to deliver documents to Tristan Goldberg, a flash flood struck. Desperate, I dialed his number, praying he’d answer.

After a few rings, the call connected. But instead of Tristan, a woman’s voice answered. "Tristan, whose number is this? Do you want to answer it?"

There was a brief pause, and then Tristan’s voice, cold and indifferent, cut through. "It’s just my maid. Ignore it. Hang up."

And just like that, the call disconnected.

Staring at the torrent rising around me, my pulse quickened. I texted him, begging for him to send a rescue team.

Minutes passed as the waters climbed to my waist, churning and relentless. Then, a message from Tristan finally appeared.

Tristan: [What kind of ridiculous story are you making up now?]

Tristan: [Emily, do you think you're eighteen, playing these childish games? I want that document in my hands within thirty minutes, or we're getting divorced.]

A surge of terror shot through me as I looked up, catching sight of a heavy branch snapping loose and crashing down. In an instant, everything went dark.

The next morning, Tristan Goldberg's call jolted me awake. His tone was sharp, dripping with irritation. "A whole day and night gone, and you still couldn't deliver one file? Do you have any idea how close I was to losing that deal because of you?!"

But he didn't know that I had lost something far more precious—our unborn child.

I traced my hand over my now-flat stomach and calmly replied, "Let's get a divorce."

For a moment, the years flashed before me—the decade I'd spent with him, from when I was just fifteen, believing time would change everything, believing one day he'd love me back.

We had grown up together, after all; childhood sweethearts, or so I thought.

When he picked up car racing, I threw myself into it too. When he took up basketball, I followed, trailing him around the court as his self-appointed ball girl, enduring everyone's laughs, desperate for a place by his side.

I had thought if I could just keep up, if I could just stay close enough, he'd eventually see me.

Then, my father fell gravely ill, and in his final moments, he entrusted me to Tristan. With a warm smile, Tristan clasped my father’s hand, promising to take good care of me.

And he kept that promise, in those early days. He'd bend down to tie my shoes, mark my period on his phone, pull me into his arms to soothe me when insecurity crept in, whispering, "I'm here. Don't worry."

Back then, I was so happy, so sweetly naive, believing we would be together forever.

But then, my father passed away, and we married.

That's when things began to unravel.

His work consumed him, the pressures of merging two companies pulling him away, making him grow distant. Even at night, during our most intimate moments, his mind often seemed elsewhere.

And eventually, I learned the truth. His mind wasn't