Chapter 3
731 Words
Fifteen days later, in the corridor of a city hospital.
I had just finished my routine prenatal checkup. Holding the freshly printed physical copy of my pregnancy report, I was walking toward the elevators.
Two people approached from the opposite direction—Julian, supporting Valerie, was heading toward the cardiopulmonary department.
In the crowd, he spotted me instantly.
His footsteps slowed, and his brow furrowed slightly. Subconsciously releasing his grip on Valerie's arm, he took a step in my direction.
"Why are you at the hospital alone?" he asked, staring at my pale face.
The moment he finished speaking, Valerie suddenly swayed behind him, her whole body slumping limply in my direction.
I instinctively took a half-step back. My fingertips slipped, and the pregnancy report fluttered onto the tiled floor.
Valerie fell heavily to the ground. The sole of her shoe landed squarely and firmly on that piece of paper.
Julian instantly retracted the foot he had just stepped toward me with. He immediately turned around, bent down, and scooped Valerie up into his arms.
"Julian, I feel so dizzy..." Valerie gasped, leaning against his shoulder.
I squatted down and reached out, trying to pull the pregnancy report out from under her foot.
Carrying her in his arms, Julian strode forward, walking right past me. His eyes were entirely focused on the weak Valerie in his embrace; he didn't even look down to see what she was stepping on.
"Don't squat in the middle of the hallway."
Dropping that single sentence, he carried her straight toward the emergency room at the end of the corridor.
I stayed crouched in place, looking at the dust-stained pregnancy report on the floor.
The gestational weeks data was printed clearly on it. That was our child. Yet he had unhesitatingly stepped right over it, only finding me a hindrance in his path to take care of another woman.
I reached out, picked up the paper, and slowly wiped away the dust with the pad of my thumb. In truth, there was no need to show him anymore. In his heart, this child and I were inherently less important than Valerie's single cough.
I folded it up and put it in my bag.
...
The penthouse.
I pushed open the door to the basement. The butler had indeed cleared out half the space. The storage racks originally used for my perfume materials were now lined with rows of seasonal haute couture dresses.
I walked to my workstation. Not only had the racks been emptied, but the manuscript of 'Starfall'—which I had spent over half a month organizing and preparing to submit in France—was missing from my desk.
I dialed Julian's number.
After two rings, the call connected.
"Where is the manuscript that was on my desk?" I asked calmly, staring at the empty table.
"I took it," Julian's voice came through the receiver, his tone treating it as a matter of fact. "Valerie needs a piece of work for her comeback. She's just borrowing your drafts for an emergency. Tomorrow I'll have a brand send a few haute couture bags to the house as compensation for you."
I listened quietly.
That wasn't clothes or jewelry; it was my commercial master draft that I had stayed up late modifying for half a month. But in his eyes, it was just a stack of "drafts" that could be casually taken to please another woman, something to be brushed off with a few handbags.
There was no point arguing with him. He would always feel his favoritism was perfectly justified.
I didn't say another word and simply hung up the phone.
Tossing my phone aside, I dragged out the wastebasket from under the desk, pulled over the paper shredder, and plugged it in.
I opened the drawer, took out the remaining perfume notebooks, tore out the pages one by one, and fed them into the slot. The muffled grinding of gears echoed in the basement. The paper turned into countless white shreds, falling into the basket below.
After shredding all the physical drafts, I unplugged the USB drive from my work computer. It contained the underlying data and all the modification logs for 'Starfall'.
I slipped the USB drive into my coat pocket.
Looking at the empty workstation, I muttered, "Since you don't care about any of this, then I won't leave anything behind either."
- Writer
