Chapter 3 - He Found Out Too Late to Call Himself a Husband
When Ethan entered the hospital room, I wanted him gone.
The problem was that another contraction struck before I could say it.
Pain rolled through my abdomen.
My hand clenched around the bedrail.
Maya stood beside me.
The doctor watched the monitor.
Ethan stopped near the door.
He looked pale.
I had seen Ethan bleeding and calmer.
“Claire.”
“Don’t.”
My voice came out sharper than I intended.
He stayed where he was.
That helped.
The doctor explained that the contractions might be caused by stress and dehydration.
My cervix had changed slightly, but not enough yet for delivery.
The goal was to stop labor if possible.
Keep the baby inside longer.
Every extra day mattered.
I nodded through the explanation.
Ethan stood silently in the corner.
When the doctor said, “The baby girl’s heartbeat looks reassuring,” Ethan’s head lifted.
“Girl?”
I looked away.
The doctor paused.
She understood immediately.
“Yes.”
Ethan swallowed.
“A daughter?”
No one answered.
Something in his face broke quietly.
Not enough to earn forgiveness.
But enough for me to see.
He had missed everything.
The first heartbeat.
The first ultrasound.
The moment I learned she was a girl.
Her first kick.
The night she had hiccups so strongly I laughed alone in bed.
He had missed all of it because he had spent months convinced the most important things in his life were waiting outside our marriage.
The medication eventually slowed the contractions.
Hours passed.
Maya fell asleep in a chair.
I stared at the ceiling.
Ethan stayed.
Not close.
Not speaking.
Just there.
Around five in the morning, I finally said, “Go home.”
His gaze moved to me.
“I’m staying.”
“No.”
“I won’t bother you.”
“You being here bothers me.”
Pain crossed his expression.
Good.
Part of me hated myself for thinking that.
Another part thought three months of pain deserved company.
“I need to know you’re both safe.”
“You know now.”
“Claire.”
“You didn’t care enough to know yesterday.”
“That isn’t fair.”
I turned my head slowly.
“Do you really want to discuss fairness?”
He closed his mouth.
For several seconds, we listened to the fetal monitor.
Then Ethan said, “Vanessa is gone.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“I fired her.”
“That’s not my problem.”
“She lied to you.”
“She didn’t make you ask for a divorce.”
“I know.”
“She didn’t make you forget our anniversary.”
“I know.”
“She didn’t make you treat me like a burden.”
“I know.”
Each answer came quieter.
I looked at him.
For once, there was no defense.
No excuse.
No command.
Just a man being forced to look at the damage he had created.
“I’m not coming home.”
“I know.”
“I’m not stopping the divorce because you found out about the baby.”
His jaw tightened.
“I know.”
“You don’t get to become the husband I needed because now there’s a child involved.”
“I know.”
The repetition finally made me angry.
“Then stop saying that.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“The truth.”
He looked at me.
I had asked Ethan for honesty many times.
Usually he gave me silence.
That morning he gave me something else.
“The truth is I thought you would fight me.”
I stared.
“What?”
“When I asked for the divorce.”
He looked toward the window.
“I thought you’d get angry. I thought you’d accuse me. I thought you’d tell me I was making a mistake.”
“You were testing me?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“I don’t know.”
He rubbed a hand over his face.
“I had convinced myself that you didn’t want this life anymore.”
“You mean the life where my husband ignored me?”
His mouth tightened.
“I thought you were unhappy because of who I am.”
“I was unhappy because of how you treated me.”
“I see that now.”
“Three years late.”
His eyes returned to mine.
“I thought if I ended it first, I wouldn’t have to watch you decide you couldn’t live with me.”
The words stunned me.
Not because they excused anything.
They didn’t.
Because Ethan Blackwood had just admitted something dangerously close to fear.
“You thought I was going to leave.”
“Yes.”
“So you asked for a divorce.”
“Yes.”
“That may be the stupidest thing you’ve ever said.”
A humorless laugh escaped him.
“Probably.”
“You could have asked me.”
“I don’t ask people things I’m afraid to hear.”
“There.”
I pointed weakly at him.
“That is your entire problem.”
He looked almost offended.
Then his shoulders lowered.
“I know.”
A nurse came in to check my IV.
Conversation ended.
But something had changed.
Not between us.
Inside him.
Ethan left the room around sunrise.
I assumed he had finally listened.
Ten minutes later he returned carrying tea for Maya, water for me, and the exact plain crackers my doctor had recommended.
I stared at him.
“I said go home.”
“I went downstairs.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
Despite myself, I almost smiled.
Almost.
Then my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
A photograph loaded.
Ethan and Vanessa.
The image had clearly been taken months earlier.
Vanessa’s arms were around his neck.
Her lips touched his cheek.
The message underneath read:
Ask your husband how many nights he really spent with her.
My stomach clenched.
Ethan saw my face.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Another message.
He didn’t fire Vanessa because she lied. He fired her because she knows too much.
I turned the phone face down.
Ethan’s expression hardened.
“Show me.”
“No.”
“Claire.”
“No.”
The monitor changed slightly.
The nurse looked up.
“Let’s keep stress low.”
I almost laughed.
Wrong family.
After discharge that afternoon, I refused Ethan’s offer to drive me.
Maya took me home.
My doctor ordered bed rest.
No unnecessary stress.
No heavy lifting.
Hydration.
Immediate return if contractions restarted.
Ethan learned my address because he followed us.
I knew before Maya even parked.
A black SUV stopped half a block away.
I sighed.
“You have got to be kidding.”
Maya looked in the mirror.
“At least he’s predictable.”
“He’s impossible.”
She helped me upstairs.
An hour later, someone knocked.
I expected Ethan.
Instead, it was a delivery worker holding six grocery bags.
“Blackwood?”
I nearly slammed the door.
Inside were enough groceries to survive winter.
Fresh fruit.
Soup.
Crackers.
Electrolytes.
Tea.
Prenatal snacks.
And, inexplicably, three different kinds of ice cream.
A note sat inside one bag.
The doctor said hydration and rest. I will not come upstairs unless you ask. —E
I should have been furious.
Instead, I cried.
Pregnancy hormones.
Exhaustion.
Grief.
Take your pick.
Maya found me sitting on the kitchen floor beside a bag of oranges.
“Oh, honey.”
“I hate him.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I would like to.”
“That I believe.”
For the next week, Ethan kept his distance.
Mostly.
Every morning something appeared downstairs.
Breakfast.
Flowers once, which I sent back.
A book about pregnancy.
That one made me furious.
“You had eight months,” I wrote in a text.
His answer came immediately.
I know.
I expected excuses.
There were none.
Three days later, another package arrived.
Inside were copies of every medical bill I had paid during my pregnancy.
They were stamped PAID.
I called him.
“You had no right.”
“You’re carrying my child.”
“I can pay my own bills.”
“I know.”
“Then why did you do this?”
“Because I should have been paying half from the beginning.”
I had no answer.
His voice softened.
“I’m not trying to buy forgiveness.”
“It feels like it.”
“Then I’ll stop.”
That surprised me.
“Just say the word.”
I stared out my window.
“Stop sending things.”
“Okay.”
And he did.
No groceries the next morning.
No flowers.
No packages.
Nothing.
I discovered that his absence bothered me more than his deliveries.
That irritated me even more.
Then Friday night, the power went out.
Not only my apartment.
The entire building.
Maya was across town.
I lit a flashlight.
My phone had forty percent battery.
No reason to panic.
Then someone knocked.
Three slow knocks.
I froze.
“Claire?”
Ethan.
Relief hit before anger.
I opened the door halfway.
“What are you doing here?”
“Transformer blew nearby.”
“So?”
“So the elevators are down and the building’s rear security door isn’t locking properly.”
I stared.
“How do you know that?”
“My driver noticed people coming through it.”
Of course he did.
“I’m fine.”
“I know.”
“Then leave.”
“I will.”
He hesitated.
“There’s something else.”
“What?”
He held out an envelope.
Inside was a printed photograph of Vanessa meeting a man outside a downtown restaurant.
I recognized him from newspapers.
Victor Blackwood.
Ethan’s uncle.
The man Ethan almost never discussed.
“What am I looking at?”
“Something I should have noticed sooner.”
“Meaning?”
“Vanessa didn’t start interfering in our marriage because she wanted me.”
My skin chilled.
“Then why?”
Ethan’s face turned cold.
“Because someone wanted you gone.”
I gripped the envelope.
“Why?”
“That’s what I’m finding out.”
“Who is Victor?”
“My father’s younger brother.”
“You told me he lived in New York.”
“He did.”
“And now?”
“Now he’s back.”
I suddenly remembered the anonymous texts.
The hospital message.
The old photograph.
“Ethan.”
“Yes?”
“Someone has been messaging me.”
His entire body became still.
I handed him my phone.
He read everything.
The change in his expression frightened me.
Not because he looked angry.
Because he looked afraid.
“Pack a bag.”
“No.”
“Claire.”
“I am not going back to the mansion.”
“I didn’t say mansion.”
“Then where?”
“Somewhere protected.”
“I’m not letting you move me around like property.”
His voice dropped.
“This is not about controlling you.”
“Everything with you is about control.”
“Not this.”
“What exactly are you afraid of?”
He looked at my stomach.
Then at me.
“That whoever wanted my wife gone may now know she’s carrying my child.”
A sound came from the dark stairwell.
Metal scraping.
Ethan turned instantly.
The apartment door opened wider as he moved in front of me.
Footsteps sounded below.
Slow.
Then stopped.
My heart began hammering.
“Ethan?”
He did not look back.
“Call Maya.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re leaving tonight.”
Before I could argue, a heavy object struck the building door downstairs.
Once.
Twice.
Then glass shattered.
Ethan locked my apartment door and finally turned to me.
“Claire.”
His voice was calm.
Too calm.
May you like
“Whatever happens next, stay behind me.”
And for the first time since I left him, I realized the danger surrounding Ethan Blackwood had finally found me too.
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