My Water Broke During His Ex's Hostage Crisis

Chapter 5

Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the maternity center as I reclined in the lounge chair, my fingers lightly tapping on the tablet.

The screen displayed a message from the real estate agent—the marital home had been listed at 30% below market value.

"Ms. Taylor, we really can't go any lower than this," the agent's voice message had a touch of regret.

My response was firm: "This is the price. The sooner it sells, the better."

After ending the call, I dialed the moving company.

Every single item in that house—every memory-laden thing, including the baby products Gavin had carefully chosen—was on my discard list.

None of them had a place in the new life my daughter and I were building.

I didn't have to wait long before my mother-in-law called.

Her voice wavered with tension.

"Yvonne, the house—"

"Mom," I cut her off, "Would you and Dad like to buy it? I can give you a 20% discount off market price."

I could hear my father-in-law's furious shout in the background.

I continued calmly, "Dad just spent a small fortune pulling strings, so I'm sure money's tight. Maybe you should rent first and save up. Who knows if Gavin will come back missing a limb or two—"

"You—!"

My mother-in-law gasped, horrified.

I hung up and turned my gaze to the outside.

The sunlight was warm, but inside, my heart had already built an icy wall.

That wall cracked, though, when the lawyer sent over Gavin's bank statements.

For seven years, he had been making monthly donations—anywhere from three thousand to a hundred thousand dollars—to an organization called "Q International Children's Fund."

The total donations exceeded a million dollars.

And in the "contact person" column, the name that jumped out was Jennifer Carter.

My fingers tightened around the tablet.

For all these years, we'd kept our finances separate—I'd even paid for my own prenatal checkups. I thought he was building his career, but his money had been funneled into his ex-girlfriend's so-called "philanthropy"?

My phone buzzed with an immigration notification.

Gavin would be repatriated in three days.

On the day of his return, I took extra care with my makeup.

The woman in the mirror had sharp eyes, nothing like the naive fool I'd once been, blinded by love.

The airport was crowded with Gavin's relatives and friends.

Whispers spread as I walked in.

I ignored them, striding to the front and pulling the signed divorce agreement from my bag.

When the plane door opened, I felt a momentary hitch in my breath.

Gavin was wheeled out in a chair, a dark-skinned girl by his side.

The way he tensed when she stumbled sent a sharp pang through me. In seven years of marriage, he'd never shown that kind of concern for me.

"Yvonne!"

Gavin's eyes were red the moment he saw me.

He struggled to stand, but the wheelchair held him back.

Amid the crowd's watchful gazes, he reached for my hand.

"I kept my promise. I came back to you."

I looked down at his gaunt face and realized how much of a stranger he had become.

The man I once longed for didn't even seem to notice that I'd given birth.

"Welcome back," I said, offering a smile as I withdrew my hand.

Then, I pulled out the document.

"Now, sign this."

The divorce agreement gleamed coldly under the bright lights, reflecting the resolve in my eyes.

Gavin froze, finally noticing my flat stomach and the unflinching determination in my gaze.

A heavy silence fell around us.

And in that moment, I knew—our seven-year marriage had reached its end.