I was born with a quiet, peculiar curse: I can see the threads of devotion. They grow from the center of a chest—a thin, luminous cord of crimson that snakes out and anchors itself to the wrist of the person they love most. The deeper the shade of red, the more consuming the passion. Ten years ago, the first time Damian looked at me, his cheeks flushed, and a pale pink thread drifted from his chest to bind itself around my left wrist. Over the years, through his confession, his proposal, and finally our wedding, that thread deepened until it glowed like a hot ember—intense, bright, and seemingly permanent. Until the first semester of my pregnancy, on the morning he had promised to finally accompany me to my twelve-week ultrasound. I looked at him, and my heart stopped. A second thread had sprouted from his chest. It didn’t reach for me. Instead, it slithered across the hardwood floor, snaking out toward the front door, reaching for someone I couldn’t see. Suddenly, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, a guilty shadow crossing his face, and walked out onto the balcony to answer it. When he slid the glass door open again, his expression was a mask of practiced anxiety. “Babe, there’s a massive crisis at the office. I have to run in and handle it. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. We’ll reschedule the scan.” As he spoke, the second thread pulsed, its crimson hue darkening with terrifying speed. It was in that quiet, devastating moment that I knew. Our marriage was already over. 1 Just as Damian was grabbing his coat for my ultrasound, his phone rang. Through the quiet of our bedroom, I caught the faint, high pitch of a woman’s voice on the other end, though I couldn’t make out the words. Damian shot me a quick, defensive look. He hung up, snatched his car keys off the dresser, and practically bolted for the door. “Babe, something went sideways with one of our accounts. I have to get there right now,” he said, not looking me in the eye. “We’ll do the ultrasound another day, okay?” I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I was staring, paralyzed, at the second red thread trailing from his chest. Over the past two months, that cord had grown thicker, vibrant with a life of its own, while my own chest felt increasingly hollowed out by a cold, creeping dread. Right now, that second line was taut, pointing directly toward our front entryway. Then, the doorbell rang. Damian froze, his hand hovering over the doorknob. When he opened it, a young woman stepped inside. She was carrying bags of gourmet takeout and fresh seafood, kicking off her heels and reaching into our shoe cabinet for a guest slippers with a familiarity that made my stomach turn. She set the containers on the kitchen island, completely at home. And there, coiled around her wrist, was the other end of Damian’s second crimson thread. It hummed between them, thick and tangled. “Hi! I’m Lexi, Damian’s new assistant,” she said, offering a bright, polished smile. “I heard you’ve been having a rough first trimester and keeping things pretty bland. Damian loves this seafood place down the street, so I thought I’d bring some over for you both.” Damian shifted on his feet, his composure slipping for a fraction of a second. “Don’t overthink it, Maeve,” he muttered quickly. “She’s just a dedicated assistant stopping by on her way to the office.” My nails bit into the palms of my hands, my voice trembling. “Was she the ‘crisis’ on the phone just now? Is this the urgent business you had to handle?” A flicker of impatience crossed Damian’s handsome face, but as his eyes traveled down to my slightly rounded stomach, his expression softened into something resembling guilt. “Don’t start, Maeve. You’re pregnant. You shouldn’t be stressing yourself out. Let me help you up to bed.” But before he could step toward me, Lexi suddenly gasped, doubling over and clutching her stomach. “Oh, gosh,” she whispered, her voice laced with sweet, performative distress. Damian bypassed me entirely, his hands instantly reaching out to steady her. “What is it? Are you okay? Do I need to take you to the clinic?” “It’s just… my monthly cramps,” Lexi murmured, looking up at him through her lashes, her voice dripping with calculated vulnerability. “They get so bad sometimes.” Without another word, Damian led her to the kitchen, his movements fluid and practiced as he began simmering a pot of herbal tea and heating up comfort food. He had never made that tea for me. He had never looked that frantic when I spent my mornings hovering over the toilet, retching until my throat burned. A sudden, sharp ache bloomed in my lower abdomen. I gripped the edge of the dining table to keep my balance, my hand slipping and knocking my prenatal folder to the floor. The ultrasound papers scattered across the hardwood like dry leaves. Damian glanced over his shoulder, his eyes cool and detached. “You should really go lie down, Maeve.” Then he turned right back to Lexi, blowing gently on the mug of tea he’d prepared for her. When they finally prepared to leave together, Lexi paused at the door, her smile small and triumphant. “Thanks for renting that apartment for me, Damian. And for always keeping me close. Once I learn how to make that chicken recipe you like, I’ll bring some over.” Damian’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “You don’t have to do that. I’m a much better cook anyway. I’ll just make it for you.” They walked out into the cool morning air side by side, their silhouettes matching perfectly—exactly the way he and I used to look when we were still in love. The cramping in my belly intensified, a dull, heavy throbbing. I reached for my phone and dialed Damian’s number. Once. Five times. Ten times. No answer. Only the hollow drone of voicemail. Clutching my stomach, my face slick with cold sweat, I called my sister. “Don’t move,” Natalie said, her voice sharp with instant panic. “I’m on my way.” When Natalie burst through the front door, her eyes swept over the empty, quiet house. “Where the hell is Damian?” I couldn’t even find the breath to answer. Her face darkened with a fierce, protective anger as she carefully helped me into her car. Twenty minutes later, I was lying in a cold VIP hospital room. The OB-GYN stared at the ultrasound screen, his forehead creasing into a deep, troubled frown. “Where is the father?” the doctor asked. Natalie took a deep breath, stepping closer to the bed and squeezing my hand. “I’m her sister. You can tell us.” The doctor sighed, pointing to the dark, silent shape on the monitor. “The fetal heart rate is extremely weak, and development has essentially stalled. I’m so sorry, Maeve, but we need to prepare for a D&C. The pregnancy is no longer viable.” The words felt like a physical blow, knocking the wind out of me. I clutched the edge of the paper sheet, tears spilling silently into my hair, crying until my throat was raw. It was nearly dawn when Damian finally walked into the hospital room. “Damian,” I whispered, my voice cracked and broken. “The baby…” “Maeve, you really shouldn’t have treated Lexi like that yesterday,” he interrupted, his tone laced with irritation. My entire body went rigid. The words I was about to say dissolved like ash on my tongue. “She went out of her way to be nice, and you made her feel incredibly unwelcome,” he continued, pacing at the foot of my bed. “She’s just a young girl who speaks her mind. Do you really have to be this insecure?” I pulled the blanket up to my chin and closed my eyes, the last lingering embers of my desire to communicate with him dying out. While he was in the bathroom showering, his phone buzzed on the bedside table. For the first time in our ten-year relationship, I picked it up. The password was still my birthday. I unlocked it and opened his messages. Lexi’s name was pinned at the very top, saved under a single, devastating contact name: “My World”. I clicked on her profile and scrolled through her social media. It was a digital archive of their intimacy. Photos of them on weekend getaways, matching keychains from his business trips, Lexi standing by his side at corporate galas while I stayed home, nursing my morning sickness alone. I slowly lifted my gaze and looked at his chest. The original thread—the one that had bound him to me for a decade—was now a faint, translucent pink, practically invisible in the sterile hospital light. But the second thread, the one tied to Lexi, was a violent, pulsing red. 2 The next evening, Damian brought a massive bouquet of peonies—my favorite—to the hospital, his eyes filled with a performative guilt. “I’m sorry about yesterday, Maeve,” he murmured, kissing my forehead. “Tomorrow is the weekend. I’m clearing my entire schedule. I’ll stay here, and we’ll get through the next doctor’s visit together.” But by noon the next day, he wasn’t there. Instead, my phone rang with a FaceTime call. When I answered, his face popped up on the screen, bright and animated. “Hey, babe! Lexi insisted on making us lunch to apologize for the misunderstanding. Why don’t you take an Uber over to her place? She’s honestly so sweet, always thinking about others.” He spoke about her with a gentle, protective warmth that he hadn’t used with me in years. In his eyes, Lexi was the angel, and I was merely the obstacle he had to manage. After a long silence, I agreed. I needed to see it. I needed to let the reality burn itself into my retinas so I would never, ever doubt my decision. The address he sent was in a luxury high-rise only ten minutes from our home. Lexi opened the door, wearing a silk robe that draped over her shoulders with the casual grace of a woman who owned the space. And right behind her stood my husband, wearing a pair of comfortable linen loungewear that matched hers perfectly. “Maeve, please, come in! Make yourself at home,” Lexi chirped, though her eyes remained ice-cold. “Take a seat. I’m just going to help Damian finish up in the kitchen.” I stood in the entryway, the silence of the apartment pressing in on me. Driven by some quiet, masochistic urge, I walked toward the open kitchen. “Ow!” A sharp cry cut through the air. Lexi had burned her finger on a pot of boiling water. Damian immediately dropped his spatula, grabbing her hand and pulling it under the cold tap, blowing on her skin with a look of sheer, unadulterated panic. “Are you okay? Do we need to go to the emergency room?” A bitter laugh threatened to choke me. During all those lonely weeks of my pregnancy, he had never found the time to sit with me through a single doctor’s appointment. But for a tiny blister on his assistant’s finger, he looked like his entire world was collapsing. Lexi smiled, leaning into his shoulder. “I’m fine, silly. I just wanted to help you.” Damian gave her a playful, fond shove. “You’re more trouble than you’re worth. Get out of my kitchen. Go sit with Maeve.” He guided her out by the waist, his eyes finally catching mine. His expression cooled instantly. “Lexi is still young, Maeve. Be nice to her.” He offered the brief, dry instruction before turning back to the stove. The air in the living room felt thick and suffocating. As I looked around, I noticed the expensive mid-century modern furniture, the framed art, and the unmistakable presence of dual sets of everything—two matching mugs on the counter, two matching toothbrushes in the bathroom cup. Lexi sat across from me, her sweet smile not reaching her eyes. “I have terrible insomnia, you know. The walls in my old place were paper-thin. Damian was worried my lack of sleep would affect my performance at the office, so he rented this place for me.” She leaned back, running a manicured finger along the rim of her glass. “To make things easier, I keep a wardrobe of his clothes here. He has so many late-night client dinners, and he gets so tired. It’s easier for him to crash here. That way, he doesn’t disturb you while you’re trying to rest.” The blood in my veins turned to ice. “Lunch is ready!” Damian called out. Lexi jumped up excitedly. “Yay! All my favorites—shrimp and lobster!” Damian sat right next to her, naturally picking up a shrimp and peeling it with practiced ease before dropping it onto her plate. When he noticed I hadn’t touched my fork, his brows knit together. “What’s the issue now, Maeve? Why aren’t you eating?” I looked up, staring directly into his eyes. “Damian, how is it that after ten years, you still can’t remember that I am violently allergic to shellfish?” His hand froze. The color drained from his face. Lexi immediately put her fork down, her eyes welling with instant, dramatic tears. “Oh my god, Maeve, I am so, so sorry! It’s all my fault. I should have asked if you had any allergies.” Damian’s guilt instantly morphed into defensive anger. He slammed his fork onto the table. “Can you stop being so incredibly difficult, Maeve?” he snapped. “You’ve completely ruined the lunch she spent hours making, and now you’ve made her cry. Apologize to her.” A sharp, familiar cramp flared in my lower abdomen. I stood up, grabbing my coat, and walked out without saying another word. I stood on the sidewalk outside the building for five minutes, the cold wind biting at my face. I waited, foolishly, to see if he would run down after me. He didn’t. Instead, my phone buzzed with a text message. “Babe, Lexi is absolutely devastated and won’t stop crying. I’m going to stay and calm her down, and then I’ll head straight home. I love you.” He sent that “I love you” every single day. It had started as a fierce promise, but somewhere along the line, it had degraded into a mindless, automated script. We were already strangers. 3 It was past midnight when the front door clicked open and Damian walked in. He didn’t even take off his coat before starting in on me. “Maeve, I don’t understand you. How could you humiliate Lexi like that in her own home?” I turned from the window, looking at him under the dim lamplight. “Damian, do you honestly think your relationship with Lexi is normal? You treat her so well that anyone would think “she” was your wife.” He flinched, a flicker of panic crossing his eyes before he quickly masked it with indignation. “I’m the CEO of Stone Enterprises, Maeve. Taking care of my key employees is part of the job. You’re about to be a mother. When are you going to grow out of this petty jealousy?” “Taking care of her doesn’t require you to play husband in her apartment,” I said, my voice dead and flat. Damian’s face flushed with anger. “Enough! Lexi is a sweet, innocent girl. If anyone hears you talking like that, you’ll ruin her reputation.” No explanations. No frantic denials. His first, instinctual reaction was to shield her from harm. It was a reflex, as natural to him as breathing. A sudden, stabbing pain ripped through my abdomen, so intense that my knees buckled. I slumped onto the sofa, clutching my stomach. Damian’s anger evaporated instantly. He rushed over, kneeling beside me and grabbing my hands. “I’m sorry, Maeve. I lost my temper. Please, don’t get worked up. If you’re hurting, let’s go to the hospital right now.” His face was painted with the exact same devotion I had fallen in love with. But when I looked at his chest, the thread connecting him to me was nothing but a pale, dying shadow. I pulled my hands back, my voice quiet but absolute. “Damian, I can see the threads. I’ve always been able to. And right now, you have two. One is tied to me, and the other is tied to Lexi.” He stared at me, bewildered, before letting out a soft, nervous chuckle. “Threads? Maeve, what are you talking about? You’re letting the stress of the pregnancy get to your head. Tomorrow, I’m finding you a therapist.” “If you want me to feel safe,” I said, ignoring his dismissiveness, “fire her. Block her number. Cut her out of your life completely.” Damian’s face hardened again, his patience snapping. “Will you stop this madness?” he groaned, standing up and grabbing his car keys. “Lexi is in the middle of a massive career transition. She needs my mentorship. I can’t just abandon her because of your delusions.” He headed for the door, throwing his coat over his shoulder. “You need to cool off. Call me when you’re ready to be reasonable.” I let out a soft, hollow laugh as the front door clicked shut. He didn’t understand that my baby and I were the ones who needed him. Or maybe he did understand, and he simply didn’t care. Ten minutes later, my phone pinged with a notification. Lexi had posted a new photo on her Instagram. The caption read: “I wish my favorite person could stay by my side every single night.” But it wasn’t the caption that made my blood run cold. It was the photo. Clutched in Lexi’s hand, wrapped around her wrist, was a hand-carved olivewood prayer bead bracelet. On our first anniversary, Damian had been in a terrible car accident on his way to buy my favorite strawberry cake. The doctors told me he might never wake from his coma. I had spent three weeks walking the grueling spiritual trail of the Camino de Santiago on bleeding knees, praying at every sanctuary, until I found a remote monastery where an old monk gave me those blessed beads. The day I slid that bracelet onto Damian’s wrist, he opened his eyes. He had held me close, crying, swearing he would love me for the rest of his life. I hadn’t realized his lifetime would be so incredibly short. My hands shook so violently I could barely hold the phone. I dialed his number. It rang and rang, finally connecting on the sixth attempt. “Where are you?” I demanded. “The office,” he replied, his voice smooth and untroubled. “Why is Lexi wearing my prayer beads, Damian?” The silence on the other end stretched, heavy and defensive, before he sighed. “She saw them on my desk and liked them, so I let her borrow them. It’s just a piece of wood, Maeve. Why do you have to make a federal case out of everything?” “Damian—” “I have work to do. I’ll see you tomorrow.” The line went dead. I sat in the dark, tears streaming down my face, until the sun began to rise. At 8:00 AM, I picked up my phone and sent him a text. “I’ve thought about it. You’re right. There’s no point in fighting anymore. Come home for lunch today, I’ll cook.” He replied almost instantly. “I knew you’d understand, babe! I’ll bring home that strawberry cake you love. Love you.” The text practically bounced with relief. But Damian didn’t know that this wasn’t a reconciliation. It was our final meal. 4 I spent the morning on the phone with a family lawyer, drafting the divorce agreement. By the time I walked into the kitchen to start cooking, the sharp pain in my lower belly flared again, worse than before. Doubling over, I realized I couldn’t stand long enough to chop vegetables. Defeated, I ordered a spread of his favorite dishes from a high-end restaurant down the street. It was nearly 4:00 PM when Damian finally let himself in. The food on the dining table had gone completely cold. He glanced at the spread, his brows furrowing slightly. “I already ate at the office, Maeve. Why did you order so much?” I looked at his chest. The pale pink thread that had once connected him to me was gone. There was only Lexi’s crimson cord, vibrant and thick, pulsing with every beat of his heart. I stared at the empty space where my thread used to be, a strange, hollow calm settling over me. “Damian, you need to take me to the hospital. The baby—” Before I could finish, his phone screen lit up with a video call. He raised a finger, signaling for me to be quiet, and answered with a voice so tender it made my stomach wrench. “Hey, Lexi, what’s wrong? Take a breath. Tell me what happened.” On the screen, Lexi was sobbing, holding up her hand. “Damian… I was trying to cook dinner for you, and the knife slipped. I cut my hand. There’s so much blood…” Damian’s face went pale with terror. “Don’t touch anything, Lexi. I’m coming right now.” He grabbed his coat and ran for the door. As his hand touched the knob, he paused, as if suddenly remembering I was in the room. He didn’t turn around. “I’ll call the driver to take you to your appointment, Maeve.” The door slammed shut, the sound echoing through the empty house. A white-hot spike of agony ripped through my pelvis, and I felt a sudden, terrifying warmth gush between my thighs. Trembling, I dialed Natalie’s number, but before she could answer, the world went entirely black. When I opened my eyes, the stark white ceiling of the hospital room stared back at me. Natalie was sitting by my bedside, her eyes swollen and red. She forced a fragile, heartbreaking smile. “Hey,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “The doctors… they saved you. That’s what matters.” I slowly lowered my hand to my stomach. It was flat. Empty. A single tear slipped down my temple, disappearing into my hair. Natalie quietly handed me her phone. Lexi had just posted a new photo—a close-up of her hand resting in Damian’s. On Damian’s left hand, the simple gold band I had placed on his finger was gone. In its place was a matching platinum promise ring. The caption read: “The man of my dreams is finally, truly mine.” The comments below were flooded with congratulations. During my three days in the recovery ward, Damian’s automated text arrived every single morning at exactly 9:00 AM. “I’ll make it up to you for the ultrasound, babe. Love you.” Word for word. A pre-programmed script he hadn’t even bothered to turn off. I stared at the screen, my heart entirely numb, and deleted the messages without replying. When I was finally discharged, I took a taxi back to the house to pack my things. The moment I unlocked the front door, the sound of laughter drifted from the living room. Damian and Lexi were curled up on the sofa, giggling like newlyweds. When Damian saw me, his smile froze, a flicker of awkwardness crossing his features. “Maeve… you’re back. Lexi’s lease was up, and since this place is so big, I figured she might as well move in. It just made sense.” He had stopped trying to hide it. He didn’t even care enough to lie anymore. “Fine,” I said quietly. I walked past them into the master bedroom. My clothes had been pulled from the hangers and piled onto the floor to make room for Lexi’s colorful wardrobe. The bedsheets were crumpled and smelled of her perfume. A wave of intense nausea hit me, and I had to lean against the wall to keep from vomiting. I ignored the clothes on the floor. I grabbed only my passport, my birth certificate, and my legal documents, stuffing them into a small duffel bag. Then, I slid my wedding ring off my finger and tossed it into the trash can by the door. When I walked back out, Damian was waiting in the hallway, his brow furrowed. “Where are you going? You just got home.” As he spoke, his eyes fell to my midsection. He froze. “Your… your stomach…” Before he could process what he was seeing, Lexi’s voice shrieked from the guest bedroom. “Damian! Oh my god, come quick! There’s a massive spider in here, I’m terrified!” Damian’s head whipped toward her voice, his panic instant. Without another word to me, he bolted down the hall to save her. I didn’t wait. I walked out of the house, pulled my phone out, and booked a one-way ticket to Boston. A day later, Damian was tossing a piece of scrap paper into the bedroom trash can when a glint of metal caught his eye. He reached in and pulled out my wedding ring, his heart suddenly hammering against his ribs. A knock at the door broke the heavy silence of the house. He rushed to open it, a sigh of relief escaping his lips. “Maeve, did you forget your—” But it wasn’t me. A courier stood on the porch, holding a tablet. “Delivery for Damian Stone. Sign here, please.” Damian signed with trembling fingers and took the thick manila envelope. When he slid the contents out and saw the signed divorce papers, the breath left his lungs in a sudden, violent gasp.
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