Sorry, Your Ex-wife Has Remarried

“The patient is hemorrhaging! We need to perform an emergency C-section right away!” “Where’s her family? We need consent for the operation!” “They’re not here! We can’t reach anyone on the phone!” The VIP maternity ward at Kingston General Hospital was chaotic. The air reeked of blood, and the tension among the medical staff was palpable. Nurses and doctors hurried in and out, their faces grim. Claire Sanders lay on the delivery bed, her legs strapped into stirrups. She was barely conscious, unaware of the blood soaking through the sheets beneath her. A nurse bent close, her voice a mix of urgency and concern. “Ms. Sanders, please! Can you hear me? Where’s your family? We need someone to authorize the procedure. Is there anyone we can contact?” “You’re losing a lot of blood,” the nurse continued, her voice shaking. “And your blood type is rare. If we delay any longer, your baby might not make it, and… you’d be in serious danger too.” Sweat plastered Claire’s hair to her ashen face. She barely registered the words, her mind clouded with pain and fragmented memories. Somewhere in the haze, she remembered—today was Charlotte’s birthday. Her sister, Charlotte Sanders, was likely celebrating at the Sanders family estate. And with her? Claire’s husband, Jameson Fletcher, and their five-year-old son, Marcus. The thought of that morning surfaced unbidden, cutting through her agony. She rose early, as always, to prepare breakfast for her family. She hoped to speak with Jameson, to remind him how close she was to her due date. “Jameson,” she asked softly, “I think the baby might come today. Can you stop by the hospital after work? I might need you.” Jameson glanced up from his milk. "Today? I can’t. I promised Charlotte I’d spend the day with her for her birthday.” Her heart dropped as she watched him drain his mug with infuriating calm. His dark eyes flickered briefly to her swollen belly, his voice turning cold. “Your sister’s birthday is today, and you’re trying to overshadow it? Why can’t you pick another day?” Claire said nothing, stunned by the sheer cruelty of his words. He rose from the table, adjusted his tailored black suit, and slipped a gleaming Patek Philippe watch onto his wrist. “You don’t have to pick up Marcus this afternoon. He’ll come with me.” Moments later, the driver arrived. Jameson strode out without a backward glance, his tall figure framed by the morning light. He hadn't changed since the day they met six years ago—still handsome, still untouchable, still indifferent. Marcus, their son, was no better. “I’m not eating either!” he huffed, mimicking his father’s icy tone. “You know I hate milk, but you keep making me drink it. Aunt Charlotte’s chestnut cake is way better!” With that, he dumped his half-full glass into the trash, grabbed a gift box, and toddled after Jameson without so much as a goodbye. Claire stood frozen in the kitchen, her heavily pregnant body aching from the effort of preparing a meal no one appreciated. The warmth she had longed for—the family moment she had dreamed of—evaporated, leaving only an empty, icy void. Her chest tightened, as though her heart was hurled into a frozen wasteland and shattered into pieces. Even now, hours later, that coldness lingered. Her hands trembled as she reached for the nurse’s arm, her voice cracking. “Please… give me my phone.” Her fingers fumbled to call Jameson, but the call went straight to voicemail. She tried again and again. Desperation clawed at her as she called her parents, her brother, anyone she could think of—but no one answered. Her vision blurred with tears as she pressed the name she least wanted to see on the screen: Charlotte Sanders. The video call connected almost instantly. Claire’s breath hitched as Charlotte’s serene, smiling face filled the screen. “Claire? What’s wrong?” Charlotte asked sweetly, tilting her head. “Why aren’t you here for my birthday party?” Behind her, the scene was like a dagger to Claire’s heart. Fireworks lit up the night sky in brilliant bursts, casting a warm glow over Jameson and Marcus. Jameson held Marcus in his arms, his expression soft in a way Claire had never seen. Marcus clapped his little hands in delight, beaming up at Charlotte before leaning in to kiss her cheek. “Happy birthday, Aunt Charlotte! I love you the most!” Claire’s parents, Philip and Lana, stood nearby, their faces glowing with pride as they showered Charlotte with affection. Even her brother, Evan, was there, raising a toast to his adopted sister. They looked like the perfect family. And Claire? She was dying—alone. Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Charlotte… I need to speak to Jameson. Please, put him on.” Charlotte’s smile faltered for a moment, her brows knitting together. “Oh, Claire, don’t be like this. It’s my birthday. Can’t it wait?” “It can’t,” Claire rasped, the edges of her vision darkening. “Please…” Charlotte hesitated, then turned the phone toward Jameson. "Jameson, it’s Claire. She says it’s urgent.” Jameson’s face appeared on the screen, his sharp features hard and unyielding. For a fleeting moment, his brows furrowed as he took in Claire’s sweat-drenched face, but the softness in his gaze disappeared almost instantly. “What is it now, Claire?” he asked, his voice laced with irritation. “I’m hemorrhaging,” she whispered, forcing the words out through the pain. “They need your signature… for the surgery. Please, Jameson. I need you.” He scoffed. “You’re pulling this again? It’s just childbirth, Claire. Stop crying wolf.” Her grip tightened around the phone. The IV needle in her hand shifted painfully, blood seeping from the puncture. She wanted to scream, to rage at him, but all she could manage was a broken, desperate plea. “Jameson… I’m begging you. Please come.” His expression darkened, his lips curling into a sneer. “No. Not until Charlotte’s party is over.” Claire’s phone slipped from her trembling hands, clattering onto the bed. Her heart crumbled under the weight of his indifference. Tears streamed down her face as she took a shuddering breath. When she spoke again, her voice was steady, each word laced with icy resolve. “If you don’t come, Jameson… we’re getting a divorce.”