When I was three months pregnant, my husband Carson Moore, an internationally renowned director, canceled our marriage registration plans for the ninth time because of his artist Sarah Jacobs. The first time, Sarah sprained her ankle while accepting an award, and he rushed to the hospital, leaving me alone at the city hall. The second time, Sarah got sick from food poisoning, and he pushed me out of the car without hesitation, leaving without looking back. Every time we planned to get married, Sarah would have some kind of emergency. Finally, I decided to terminate the pregnancy and return to my country to get away from it all. However, after I returned to New York, he began desperately begging me to come back. ***** Carson and I have been in love for ten Christmases and married for two, yet he still hasn’t officially registered our marriage. Today, as his film’s box office broke five billion dollars, he finally promised to register our marriage to celebrate this achievement. But when I was cornered and slapped by his and Sarah’s fans at the movie theater, he was at the roadshow event, tearfully thanking Sarah, calling her his muse who had provided him with endless inspiration for many Christmases. I walked into the theater with my swollen cheek, and he merely glanced at me coldly, saying, “Your face is so swollen, it’s embarrassing to be seen. Get out now!” His assistant, unable to bear it, quietly reminded him, “Your wife is pregnant.” He scoffed contemptuously, “It’s not like I wanted this child. She got pregnant, what does that have to do with me?” I stared at him in shock. My health was already poor. To conceive this child, I had daily injections at the hospital until my body was exhausted. I suffered from insomnia, lost handfuls of hair, and my once healthy body now left me breathless after walking just a few steps. Yet now he claimed he didn’t want the child. But with so many people around, I swallowed my objections to protect his reputation. However, after the roadshow, when I brought up our marriage registration again, he glared at me viciously: “When do I have time? Sarah isn’t feeling well, I need to take her to the hospital first.” I desperately grabbed his wrist, but he had anticipated this and forcefully pushed me to the ground, completely disregarding our unborn child’s safety. He walked away from the scene, holding Sarah’s hand. Watching his resolute back, instead of breaking down as onlookers expected, I gave a cold smile: “Of course, Ms. Jacobs’ health is more important, don’t let me delay you.” Carson thought he had misheard. After all, in the past, whenever Sarah was involved, I would scream and shout like someone out of control. My calmness now clearly caught him off guard. He said, “Go home early, I’ll have dinner with you tonight.” I thought to myself: “Is this how you brush me off? What am I to you, really?” He drove away, disappearing from my sight. I clearly saw Sarah sitting in the passenger seat, smiling smugly at me. That was her designated seat, even labeled with her name. Whenever I tried to sit there, Carson would rage: “You don’t deserve it. This is Sarah’s seat, can’t you see? Get in the back!” With all these little incidents piling up, I guess everyone respected Sarah’s position more than mine. I gently caressed my slightly swollen belly, murmuring, “Baby, don’t blame me. I don’t want you to be born into a loveless family.” It’s one thing for me to suffer. I can’t let my child suffer too. My gaze fell on the ill-fitting ring on my finger, and I shook my head. I thought: “This marriage should have ended long ago.”
In the evening, I lay on the hospital operating table, clutching the cold abortion consent form in my hand. My good friend Alice Fields stood beside me, her eyes filled with hesitation and concern. “Are you really sure about this? You’ve put so much effort into having this baby, and Christmas has been to the hospital so many times.” She had accompanied me to the hospital countless times these past Christmases and knew exactly how much I had sacrificed to get pregnant. Yet now, I was about to end his life with my own hands. I shook my head gently, my gaze forlorn yet determined. “I don’t regret my decision. This is the best outcome possible.” Alice sighed. “Your husband will definitely be angry when he finds out. You two used to be the model couple at school, people still talk about your story.” I didn’t answer, just silently fingered the paper in my hand. The beautiful past had ultimately become just that—the past. People always need to learn to move forward. After the surgery, I dragged my weakened body home and pushed open the door. As expected, Carson still hadn’t returned. I sat exhausted on the sofa, but my hand accidentally touched something soft. In the dim light, I picked it up and saw it was an unfamiliar piece of women’s lingerie—black lace, elegantly designed. What they had done was obvious. My stomach churned, and I couldn’t help but retch. Sarah was known for her attention to detail. Unless she wanted to deliberately provoke me, she wouldn’t have made such a basic mistake. I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself, then dialed a familiar number. “Hello, Mom, I’m taking your advice and coming back to New York.” Back then, I had stubbornly defied my parents’ objections and flown to England to marry Carson. I had promised everyone we would be happy together. But reality was cruel. Fortunately, it wasn’t too late to change course. If there was no place for me here, I would go somewhere more suitable. That night, Carson still didn’t come home. Early the next morning, just as I woke up, he pushed open the door and said, “Where’s breakfast? What do you do all day at home? You can’t even make me breakfast?” I didn’t move, just stared blankly at the prominent red mark on his neck. When we were dating, he had complained countless times that I shouldn’t leave marks on him. Yet now, he allowed another woman to flaunt her territory so brazenly. Apparently, he didn’t hate being marked—he just hated that it was me who did it. Seeing no reaction from me, his tone grew increasingly irritated. “What’s wrong with you? Are you angry because I didn’t come home? Business is like this—I need to keep investors happy!” I remained calm. He was explaining himself because he sensed my displeasure. But he had never bothered to explain himself to me before. Carson was clearly angered by my attitude. “I’m talking to you!” I finally spoke, my voice detached, “I’m listening.” For some reason, my cold demeanor infuriated him even more. “I work hard for this family, what are you angry about?” I couldn’t be bothered to argue with him anymore. “If you don’t like it, you can leave.” I didn’t want to waste any more time or energy on this topic. Originally, I had planned to tell him about the abortion, but now, amid our argument, it all seemed pointless. He got up with a cold expression and slammed the door shut as he left, the deafening sound making the whole house tremble. In that moment, I suddenly remembered when we first got together. Back then, knowing I had claustrophobia, he would never leave me alone. But now, he frequently didn’t come home at night. The clock ticked loudly, sounding particularly harsh in the silent room. I looked around at the house we had built together, my feelings complicated.
I struggled to put everything in order, my body so weak after the miscarriage that I could barely stand. My vision kept darkening, and I had to lean against the wall just to keep from falling. Alice called me repeatedly, but I didn’t answer. She was so worried that she rushed into my home, panting as she asked, “Why aren’t you responding to my messages? I’ve been waiting for you! I thought you were upset because of that psycho Carson.” I asked in confusion, “Upset about what?” Alice angrily opened a video and handed it to me. It was filmed by our friends at the bar. In the dim lighting, at the center of the dance floor, Carson and Sarah’s bodies were tightly intertwined, their lips meeting occasionally—looking every bit like a loving couple. The video captured our friend’s furious voice: “I’ve never seen such a shameless man! Sienna is at home waiting for him, and he’s here at the bar getting tangled up with another woman!” Alice looked at me with concern: “We ran into them by chance. I didn’t realize they’d become so bold. Today is your anniversary, for God’s sake!” Anniversary? Her reminder suddenly hit me. Ten years ago today, on the school field, Carson had lit candles and played guitar as he confessed his love to me, promising to treat me well forever and never disappoint me. I wondered, “If he knew what would happen later, what would he think?” Stirring my coffee, I smiled faintly. “What anniversary? Don’t forget, we never officially got married. He’s free to do whatever he wants. I have no right to interfere.” Alice’s eyes widened. “What are you saying? Aren’t you two married?” “We never got a marriage certificate,” I replied, my tone as calm as if I were telling someone else’s story. Many people probably wouldn’t believe that Carson and I had a child together yet weren’t even legally married. My ten years of waiting had been rewarded with disappointment for the tenth time. At eleven that night, I sat at home eating our anniversary cake, which had long gone cold. This was the last memento I’d buy for our absurd relationship. Suddenly, Carson pushed open the door. Seeing me sitting silently at the dining table, he approached irritably, seemingly looking for a fight. But when he noticed my bare finger, all his anger instantly vanished, replaced by shock: “Where’s our wedding ring?” As the cake’s sweetness dissolved in my mouth, I smiled. “It gets in the way when I’m doing housework, so I took it off.” Though still suspicious, he didn’t press further. He took out an expensive necklace and hung it around my neck, saying, “I’ve been too busy with work lately and have neglected you, but I always remembered what day it is. Don’t be angry anymore.” The light shone on that dazzling jewel, but I felt dazed. I thought, “How ridiculous—a man who remembers our anniversary was passionately kissing another woman at a bar just half an hour ago.” “Do you like it?” he asked, somewhat nervously. “Of course I do, honey. You’re so good to me,” I replied, still wearing that innocent smile. I would have liked it more if it hadn’t been identical to the one around Sarah’s neck. Five minutes earlier, Sarah had updated her Twitter, with this very necklace prominently displayed. Seeing that I apparently wasn’t angry, he finally relaxed. “Sarah is flying to France soon to receive a major international award. I’m worried she’ll be nervous going alone, so I’m planning to accompany her. Could you book a hotel for us? Funds are limited, so one room should be enough.” He seemed to realize his words were inappropriate and avoided my eyes, drinking water to hide his embarrassment. No wonder he suddenly remembered to give me a gift—he was trading it for my dignity.
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