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 just elsewhere; it was with someone else.

She'd come back—the one who'd been his unreachable dream in his youth, the one who had cast a long shadow over us all these years. Faye Presley, his first love, had returned to the country. She'd even secured a position as a secretary in his company.

At first, he played it down, wrinkling his nose as if he hardly cared. "Don't worry about her," he'd say with an air of feigned indifference. "She's just back in the country and needed a job. I'm curious to see what she can actually do."

But I saw it—the way he pressed his lips to suppress a smile he couldn't quite hide. And soon enough, I started to hear about her almost every day, slipping into our conversations whether I wanted it or not.

He often complained to me, saying that Faye—once the epitome of grace and intellect—had become clumsy and couldn’t even make a decent cup of coffee, unlike mine, which suited his taste perfectly.

Whenever he came home, her name slipped into the conversation. He’d scoff about her fashion choices, saying she looked ridiculous in that pale yellow dress she wore today, or mutter that she’d put on weight, and how unbecoming that was for someone in an administrative role.

I didn't want to hear any of that.

I quietly gathered the dishes and headed toward the kitchen.

He loosened his tie, eyeing me with a frown. "You know, since you became a housewife, you've really lost any sense of fun."

I paused mid-step. "Then tell me," I said, turning back to him. "Who’s fun now? Faye?"

The air grew tense.

He kicked his chair back, frustration clear on his face. "You're so paranoid," he snapped before storming upstairs.

But I knew better—his anger was a cover for his guilt.

When I ended the call, my phone buzzed with messages from him, ping after ping.

Tristan: [Are you serious with this talk about divorce? Seriously? Over a stupid document?]

Tristan: [Can't you be a little more forgiving, hmm? Do you know what Faye almost went through just to get that document...]