After the Miscarriage, She Walked Away

The boy I grew up with, my husband, brought another woman into our home.

Her voice was soft and coaxing.

Mr. Stephens, your wife really is blind. So we don't even have to close the door, do we?

Brent Stephens's voice was indulgent. That's right. No need to close it.

Then he brushed right past me and walked into the guest room.

I lost myself and tried to follow, but my foot slipped and I crashed to the floor.

Pain tore through my belly all at once, and I couldn't move.

All I could do was demand, half-hysterical, "Why are you doing this to me?"

"I may be blind, but I've never been a burden to you. I stand on my own, I make my own money, and I've done everything a wife is supposed to do."

"Because you're too obedient."

There was impatience in Brent's voice. "I tell you to go to work, and you go to work. The truth is we have more money than we'll ever spend. Keeping you costs me nothing. I tell you not to go abroad, and you actually give up your future and stay. You're too dull."

"I want something interesting."

I froze.

A moment later, the sounds of kissing and flirting drifted out from the guest room.

Being careful, being cautious, being obedientthat had become my crime.

Then fine, Brent. Have it your way.

This time, I won't be obedient.

I'll take my future. Not you.

The floor was cold.

My belly throbbed.

My hip and lower back felt wrenched out of place along with it.

I tried to push myself up several times and failed every one.

Dampness spread into my palm, warm, carrying the faint metallic smell of something foul.

The housekeeper always cleaned so carefully. Yet today, of all days, she'd made this careless mistake.

And of course she'd gone out to buy groceries.

There was no one even to help me up.

I pinned my hope on Brent, forcing his name out of my throat.

"Brent, my stomach hurts."

But the laughter from the guest room swallowed it whole.

"Mr. Stephens, your wife can't see, sure, but isn't this going too far? What if she can't take it? What if she leaves youor kills herself?"

Brent's voice turned low and rough.

"What? Are you worried about her?"

"Of course not."

The woman denied it at once, a shameless pride in her tone.

"I'm no saint. I'm the bad girl, remember? I chase the thrill. I hate rules, I hate moral leashes. Isn't that exactly why you came looking for me, Mr. Stephens?"

"Hahaha."

Brent laughed softly, an easy laugh I hadn't heard from him in years.

"You're absolutely right."

My nose stung.

My parents died in a car crash, and I lost my eyes.

The Stephens family, old friends of theirs, took me in.

Brent was rebellious, getting into fights and trouble every few days.

His father would string him up, beat him, and lock him in a room.

No one dared go near him.

No one but me.

Brent would order me to fetch him food, fetch him medicine, and I'd feel my way through every task.

Because I knew I was living under someone else's roof.

Doing what the young master said was always the safe bet.

Brent said it like a joke.

"You're this obedient, and you're pretty too. Why don't you just marry me? I like you."

My face went red.

Brent smiled. "Even prettier when you blush. Play me something on the violin."

Playing was what I did best.

Even my teacher said my violin was no worse than the masters abroad, that I had a rare touch for it.

Brent wanted to listen, so I played for him.

I even played, at our wedding.

A single piece.

Beneath that sweet, soaring music

came the half-whispered remarks of Brent's friends.

"Brent, you've gone and married yourself a music box. Pretty, obedient. You've got it made."

"Shame she's blind, though. She's not good enough for you."

Brent only gave a soft laugh.

"She shuts my parents up. Even when I'm out there living it up, they won't say a word to me about it. That's enough."

My playing stopped dead.

I froze where I stood.

I couldn't see, but I could feel it: every gaze turned toward me, and none of them was friendly.

So that was why Brent had married me.

That night.

Brent took another beating.

His father cursed at him, hard. "You worthless son. That's your wife, not some hired performer. Making her play in front of everyone at your own wedding. What do you take her for? A toy?"

Brent answered like none of it mattered.

"Enough, Dad. Nadia herself doesn't think anything of it. She did as she was told. Dad, why are you so worked up? I brought home the daughter-in-law you wanted. I'm going out."

That night, they beat Brent until the small hours, until he passed out cold.

After I went to him.

That smell of blood, I remember it to this day.

Just like now.

I breathed in hard.

No. It was the smell of blood.

What was on my hands wasn't water.

It was blood.

I clutched my stomach and called for Brent.

"Brent, come look. Am I bleeding? Am I... am I losing the baby?"

I was panicking, badly.

The only answer was a simpering woman's voice.

"Brent, I think your wife's calling you."

And Brent's voice, saying to her.

"Focus."

When you can't see.

Your hearing turns unbearably sharp.

I heard every single thing between him and that woman, clear as day.

I pressed my hands over my ears.

The tears wouldn't stop, hammering down.

My heart ached.

And the pain in my body faded next to it.

Numb, I felt my way back to the music room.

I picked up the phone beside my violin, meaning to call 911.

But then a ringtone sounded.

Mr. Salazar Calling.

I answered.

Mr. Salazar's voice came through.

"Nadia, I've thought it over. For lead violinist of the overseas orchestra, it has to be you. Your playing may have lost a little of the spark it had in your early years, but you're still the strongest of them all. I hope you'll consider it."

I couldn't stay on my feet. I was going down.

One hand slammed onto the violin strings.

A note rang out.

The people in the room seemed to hear it.

Brent called my name.

"Nadia, Gillian wants to hear you play the violin. Play something."

I laughed coldly.

The violin was the last clean thing I had left.

And Brent still wanted to defile it.

He really was far worse than I'd imagined.

I drew a deep breath.

And spoke to Mr. Salazar.

"Mr. Salazar, I accept your offer. I'll go abroad."

Mr. Salazar asked, concerned.

"Are you alright? You don't sound well."

My voice came out thread-thin. "I'm fine, Mr. Salazar."

The pain in my belly was almost enough to make me faint.

"Good. If you're alright, then play something on the violin. The overseas director is right here beside me now. He needs to make his own assessment too."

"Right now?"

I really wasn't in any state for it.

And I had no wish to play accompaniment for the two people in that room.

"Now would be best, though a few days from now is fine too. But if you play now, you'll just make the earliest round of approvals, and reach the orchestra abroad as fast as possible."

In my ear.

Brent started pressing me again.

"Why won't you play, Nadia?"

I asked Mr. Salazar.

"When does the earliest group leave?"

"Three days from now."

When I heard that, I stopped hesitating.

I made up my mind.

And I began to play.

I hated Brent.

I wanted to be far away from him, and soon.

The music carried to Brent's ears.

For no reason he could name, it set him on edge.

It was beautiful.

But he didn't want to hear it.

He didn't get it. Why? Why, when he'd already gone this far.

Nadia could still take it.

Was she an idiot?

If she was unhappy, couldn't she just say so?

Couldn't she throw a fit?

With Brent around, who could ever lay a hand on this little rabbit?

Brent stopped what he was doing.

He went to the bathroom.

Showered, scrubbing himself clean from head to toe.

Gillian was stunned.

"What's wrong, Brent? Did I do something to upset you?"

"Get out."

Gillian obediently backed out of the bathroom.

A bitter laugh rose in Brent's chest.

These women. All that talk about being rebellious, and underneath it they were no different from Nadia. Obedient.

Every ounce of grievance, of fury, of hatred, I poured it all into the violin.

My style, more impassioned than I'd ever played.

Three minutes.

Mr. Salazar called for me to stop.

The foreign director's voice came through the phone.

"Absolutely breathtaking. You're the one, Miss Whitman. We'll see you abroad in three days."

"Okay."

Three days, and we'd meet abroad.

The call ended, and I slumped into the soft chair and dialed 911.

"I think I'm having a miscarriage. Please come."

The operator's voice grew tense.

"Miss, is anyone with you right now? Is your husband there? He can drive you to our hospital so we can meet you faster and see if we can still save the baby."

"No. He's not. The baby can't be saved. I'm letting it go."

With every word.

My heart ached a little more.

I had wanted the baby.

I wanted family, someone tied to me by blood.

All the love my mother gave me, I would have given to him.

Brent had wanted a child too.

He'd quit smoking to prepare, he'd exercise, fix his sleep, he'd even study parenting on his own, and he barely went to any of his business dinners.

He said, "My parents were hardly around, always quick with their fists and their words. Once I have a kid, I'll be there for them, no matter what. I'll never raise a hand."

But all he ever did was talk.

He never followed through.

Brent finished his shower.

He wanted to go look in on Nadia, but he stopped at the bedroom door.

Something inside him was a mess.

A strange feeling churned in his chest, roiling until even breathing hurt.

Brent thought it was the late nights and the drinking finally catching up with him.

He didn't know this feeling was called regret.

Brent lay back down on the bed.

He took half a sleeping pill and drifted off.

He had mild depression, anxiety.

Only the sound of Nadia's violin could let him sleep in peace.

He'd thought about having Nadia play the violin to lull him to sleep.

But after turning it over and over in his mind.

He still pulled out his phone and played the recording he'd listened to a thousand times.

This one was recorded back when they were young.

It wasn't quite like the way Nadia played now.

Brent loved both, but the old one still set him more at ease.

Gillian watched Brent.

Even though she'd never fallen in love, never understood love, only profit.

Hungry to land a wealthy husband in one clean strike.

Right now, she saw it clearly: Brent loved Nadia. Brent had fallen.

So once Brent was asleep, she left the bedroom.

To find Nadia.

To make Nadia back out.

The first thing she saw was the blood on the floor.

A large patch of it.

Then a thin, broken trail of it, stretching all the way to the room in the corner.

She pushed the door open.

And froze at what she saw.

Whoever it was said nothing.

I guessed it was Gillian.

"Get out."

I summoned every last bit of strength I had.

"Get out!"

The breathing was still there at the door.

Gillian was startled and afraid, yet she couldn't smother the thrill rising in her.

She simply didn't believe Nadia would keep covering for Brent this time.

Her voice carried nothing but certainty.

"Do you want to divorce Brent? I can help you."

I let out a cold laugh.

"How exactly would you help me?"

"I can draft the divorce agreement for you. Don't worry, I graduated from Harvard Law School, a top-tier university. I guarantee I have professional ethics."

Maybe the pain had pushed me past numbness.

In that moment, my mind cleared a little.

I had enough strength to fire back at once.

"Professional ethics. And you're the mistress."

The remark didn't sting her in the slightest. Gillian didn't care.

"Originally, I only wanted to find a rich man who wasn't married. But your husband is just too handsome, too rich, and because of that, all my rules went out the window. And just now, in bed, he really was incredible. It only made me more certain. I want him."

Gillian studied the woman in front of her, savoring the instant my expression froze and my breath caught.

Then she raised the stakes.

"Divorce him. The way things are now, it's nothing but pain for you. You've lost your baby. Do you really think you can still spend the rest of your life with him?"

The mention of the baby.

Fury took me.

I hurled the violin in my hands at her.

A loud "crack"

Gillian spoke without a flicker of feeling.

"Such a shame. A violin this fine, shattered, just like the two of you."

This violin was a gift from Brent.

At our wedding, holding this very violin, I'd been made a fool of, paraded like a clown.

Shattered, then. So be it.

I felt no attachment to it.

"Go and draft the divorce agreement."

Once the words were out, I closed my eyes to rest, waiting for the ambulance to come.

I had to admit it.

Gillian still didn't understand Brent.

If she'd known that, at his core, Brent was an utterly twisted, vindictive man who never let a grudge go unpaid,

she wouldn't have come prancing in front of me.

And she certainly wouldn't have been foolish enough to rush so eagerly to draft my divorce agreement.

Gillian drew it up right there in front of me, the computer's mechanical voice reading the clauses aloud.

I signed my name.

Gillian couldn't hide her delight. "Perfect. I'll have Brent sign it too."

She carried the agreement to the guest room.

She called softly to Brent.

"Mr. Stephens, the new project is moving forward. We need your signature."

Roused from sleep, Brent was thoroughly irritated.

But the moment he remembered this project was a music sponsorship, a tens-of-millions Western music performance,

with the violinist's chair held open all along for Nadia,

he'd been planning it for two months.

All to give Nadia a surprise.

He started reading.

After a quick glance over one page to make sure there was nothing wrong, he signed the remaining two pages as well.

He only lifted the lower-right corner where the signature went.

He never noticed.

This was a divorce agreement.

"Blood! Why is there so much blood?!"

The housekeeper was back.

She called out to me, "Ma'am, are you all right? Where are you? Did you fall? Is it serious?"

Brent snapped awake in an instant.

The sedative hadn't fully worn off.

His head was heavy and clouded.

He forced himself up and staggered.

Out of the guest room, the moment he saw the red flooding the floor, Brent's breath stopped.