7-Year Marriage Empty, I Chose My Dream Life

It was the seventh year of our marriage, and my husband sent me a thousand roses. The moment I stepped off the operating table, I called him and calmly asked for a divorce. On the other end of the line, his young girlfriend wept as she apologized. "Mrs. Hale, it's all my fault. Please, don't be angry with Christian." Christian Hale soothed her for a long time before turning his icy tone toward me. "As you wish." I didn't see him again for another two weeks. "Make me some noodles," he said, walking into the house early in the morning. When he didn't find a hot meal waiting on the table as usual, he frowned instinctively, tossed a few instructions my way, and headed for the bathroom. By the time he stepped out, wrapped in a lingering mist of steam, I was still staring listlessly at the TV. He pulled several designer handbags from his luggage and gestured toward them. "Take a look. Do you like them?" The pink ones looked like the kind of style young girls adored. He used to spoil me by catering to my tastes, but now, he only tried to appease me with mindless, perfunctory gifts. Too tired to even glance at them, I picked up the remote to change the channel. "When are you free to finalize the divorce?" I asked. Christian was a busy man; even our anniversary gifts were selected by his secretary. When it came to scheduling, I had to be the one to accommodate him. "Stop making a scene," he said, pouring himself a small glass of red wine and settling into the armchair across from me with a faint, mocking smile. "Amber didn't know you hated roses. I'll tell her next time." Amber Collins was Christian's childhood sweetheart. She had been infatuated with him since they were young, so naturally, she became his personal secretary the moment she graduated. They were so close that they even shared suites on business trips. In truth, I didn't blame Amber for clinging to him. After all, it takes two to tango; if he didn't want it, no woman could ever make it into his bed. I let out an exaggerated yawn, tears welling up in my eyes involuntarily. After a long silence, Christian seemed to assume the matter was settled. He asked about our seven-year-old son's recent exam rankings. "I don't know." I shook my head. It wasn't that I was withholding the information out of spite; I truly didn't know. The Hale family obsessed over elite private education. Their descendants were raised in the family estate from a young age, burdened with a constant stream of scheduled lessons. It sounds laughable, but despite being the one who gave birth to him, I barely saw the boy. I had cried and made scenes over it before, but the Hale family remained indifferent. To them, my marrying into their clan was already a miracle of good fortune—anything more was simply out of the question. Christian pinched the bridge of his nose and told me to focus more on the child. "At this rate, Amber is going to seem more like his mother than you." I understood exactly what he meant. Yesterday, Friday, was the only day I was permitted to pick our son up from school. I had arrived an hour early and waited until the sun set and the school gates were locked. It was only then that Amber called to tell me that Mrs. Hale had asked her to pick up the boy for dinner. In the background, I could hear Christian's voice, laughing as he asked Amber if she wanted some soup. I snapped back to reality and looked at him with a hollow expression. "Isn't this what you wanted? I'll leave right now and clear the way for her." I wasn't sure which word struck a nerve, but Christian went silent for a few seconds before erupting in rage. "My patience has its limits. Clara Vance, stop this nonsense." He stood up and had only taken a couple of steps when I spoke up, my voice steady. "I forgot to tell you... I had a miscarriage."