A Ticking Bomb

Valerie's POV

My knuckles turned stark white as I gripped the leather steering wheel of my car. The suffocating weight of Gideon’s chilling threat from last night still crawled beneath my skin, making my stomach churn with every breath I took.

In the passenger seat, my cousin Sylvia was practically vibrating with fury.

"Are you seriously going to just let him do that? That bastard!" Sylvia shouted, slapping her palm against the dashboard. "After he cheated on you time and time again, he still refuses to give you a divorce! I want to march right up to his office and kill him!"

I kept my eyes fixed on the morning traffic, letting out a heavy, exhausted sigh. "Sylvia, please lower your voice," I tried to de-escalate the thick tension filling the small space. "Last night... I was blinded by sheer anger. That was why I threw the word divorce at him. But today, in the daylight, I have to think practically. I cannot hurt Maisie. She needs her father in her life."

Sylvia let out a loud, frustrated groan and threw her hands in the air. "Maisie needs a happy mother far more than she needs a toxic father! What is wrong with you, Valerie? Are you secretly still in love with that bastard?"

Her harsh words struck a painful, hidden chord deep within my chest.

Do I still love Gideon?

The silence stretched in the car as I swallowed hard. I remembered watching his broad back disappear through the front door this morning. Just the mere thought of permanently separating from him had brought an unexpected rush of tears to my eyes. It was a pathetic, stubborn truth. Despite enduring six agonizing years of his blatant indifference, my feelings for him refused to fade.

Yet, the suffocating fear of seeing my daughter’s crushed, disappointed face outweighed any lingering attachment I held for him. The idea of Maisie asking why Daddy was gone made my throat tighten until I could barely breathe.

"I feel so lost," I confessed openly, my voice barely above a whisper. "Before I put a ring on my finger, I swore to myself that if my husband ever cheated, I would pack my bags and leave without a single second of hesitation. I was so sure of my own strength."

I pulled up to a red light and stared blankly through the windshield. "But having Maisie... she transformed me. Motherhood stripped away my bravery. It turned me into a coward."

Sensing the profound vulnerability breaking through my defenses, Sylvia’s rigid posture melted. She unbuckled her seatbelt slightly and reached over, gently stroking my tense shoulder.

"I don't think you're a coward," Sylvia said softly, her voice losing its aggressive edge. "I just want you to be happy. Maisie would want that for you, too. Maybe you need to sit her down and communicate with her. Tell her the truth about what is happening."

"I'll try," I forced a nod, pulling my fragile emotions together. I could feel the familiar, creeping darkness of depression hovering at the edges of my mind, and I refused to let it pull me under. I parked the car in the hospital lot, reminding myself of the white coat waiting for me. "Don't worry about me right now, Sylvia. I am a doctor. I have my duties, and I need to focus on my patients."

I pushed open the car door, stepping out into the crisp air, determined to leave my marital nightmare in the parking lot.

The morning at the hospital passed in a blur of chart reviews and consultations. I threw myself into the chaotic rhythm of the ward, finding solace in the routine. But right past noon, my phone shattered the focused quiet of my office.

The caller ID flashed Rosa’s name. My chest seized. The nanny never called during my shift unless it was an absolute emergency.

"Rosa? What is it?" I answered, my pulse instantly picking up speed.

"Valerie!" Rosa’s frantic, high-pitched voice echoed through the speaker. "I have been trying to call Gideon, but he isn't answering! You have to come to the kindergarten right now! Maisie hurt herself, and she refuses to stop crying!"

A wave of pure, unadulterated panic seized my entire body.

I dropped my pen, abandoning my post without a second thought. I bolted down the hospital corridor, my white lab gown flapping behind me and my hospital slippers slapping loudly against the linoleum floor. The nurses called out my name, but I ignored them, sprinting straight for the parking garage.

During the chaotic sprint, I yanked my phone out and dialed Gideon’s number. My thumbs trembled as I pressed the screen.

*Ring. Ring. Ring. Welcome to voicemail—*

"Damn it!" Absolute frustration boiled over, burning my throat. He was always conveniently unreachable. Every single time his daughter faced a critical moment, he was a ghost.

By the time I arrived at the kindergarten, I was completely out of breath, my heart pounding violently against my ribs.

The head teacher was pacing by the front entrance. "Mrs. Vance! We were so worried," she explained quickly, walking me down the colorful hallway. "Maisie tripped over a playblock and bruised her arm quite badly against a desk. She is very distressed. We strongly recommend you take her to a doctor to ensure there are no underlying bone injuries."

I rushed directly into the nurse’s office.

Maisie was sitting on the small cot, looking miserable. Her hair was matted with sweat, and her little face was bright red from weeping. She clutched her bruised arm, rocking back and forth in visible pain.

"Mommy!" Maisie whimpered the second she saw me, throwing her good arm out.

I scooped her up, mindful of her injury, kissing her damp forehead.

"Where is Daddy?" she asked weakly, scanning the empty doorway behind me.

My heart physically ached. The profound disappointment shining clearly in her tear-filled eyes felt like a knife twisting in my gut. I forced down the bitter anger meant for my absent husband and brushed the hair from her face.

"Daddy is just busy with work right now, sweetie," I lied, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside me. "Let's go to the doctor first, get that arm fixed up, and he will join us shortly. I promise."

I carried her to my car and drove straight to a nearby pediatric clinic.

The attending doctor was thorough, examining her small arm with gentle hands. After a few agonizing minutes, he reassured me that the scrapes and bruises were minor, requiring only some ointment and a bandage.

Relieved, I stepped out into the clinic hallway to finalize the paperwork at the front desk.

When I turned back, my relief evaporated. Maisie was sitting alone on the waiting room bench. Her head hung incredibly low, her tiny shoulders slumped. She looked unusually and deeply devastated—far more than a bruised arm should warrant.

Gritting my teeth, I pulled out my phone and dialed Gideon’s number for the nth time.

*Welcome to voicemail—*

I ended the call, furious. What the hell could he possibly be doing?

I walked over and crouched down, bringing myself to my little girl’s eye level. "Hey, baby. What's wrong? Does your arm still hurt?" I asked softly.

Tears rapidly welled in Maisie’s eyes. Her tiny voice shook as she looked at me. "Mommy, why didn't Daddy answer me? Does... does my father not want me anymore?"

My brow furrowed in confusion. "What are you talking about, sweetie?"

Rosa, who had been standing a few feet away, hesitantly stepped forward. She wrung her hands, her face pale. "Mrs. Vance... while you were talking to the doctor, Maisie and I briefly went out onto the clinic's balcony to get some fresh air. And from the second floor..."

Maisie broke down into heavy, gasping sobs before Rosa could finish.

"I saw him!" Maisie wailed, burying her face in her good hand. "I physically saw my Daddy outside! He was with another kid! I called out to him, I yelled super loud, but he ignored me! He walked right past! He doesn't want me, Mommy!"

My blood instantly froze in my veins. The ambient noise of the clinic faded into a harsh, ringing silence.

Before I could even process the sheer horror of Maisie’s words or attempt to dial his number again, my phone chimed sharply in my hand.

I looked down. My private investigator had just sent me a direct message. There was a single photograph attached.

My thumb hovered over the screen before tapping it open.

As the image loaded, my heart clenched into a tight, suffocating knot of pure, unadulterated anger.

The picture was crystal clear. It showed my husband, Gideon, walking down a sidewalk. He was actively carrying a young boy affectionately in his strong arms, his face relaxed and attentive. Walking right beside him, shoulder to shoulder, was a woman.

A very familiar woman. Beatrice Finch.

My eyes darted to the background of the photograph. The brickwork, the distinctive glass doors, the street sign.

It was the front entrance. They had just stepped out of this exact same clinic.

He was here. He was right outside while his daughter cried for him inside.

The phone trembled in my palm as the brutal reality set in. The last remaining shred of faith I had in holding on to this doomed marriage shattered into a million irreparable pieces. With Beatrice Finch back in the picture, standing there like a perfect family with her child and my husband, I realized a cold, hard truth.

I never had a single chance of winning. And Gideon had just definitively proved it with his cruel, heartless actions.