The Abandoned Wife's Second Chance (Scarlett and Jasper) novel Chapter 179

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(Grace’s POV)

On our third wedding anniversary, my husband brings home his ex.

Vivienne Hartwell. His first love. The woman he’s never stopped comparing me to.

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She glides through our front door like she owns the place. One perfectly manicured hand resting on a barely visible baby bump, the other wrapped possessively around Alexander’s

arm.

Her perfume–something expensive and floral–fills the entryway, making my stomach turn.

“Grace.” Alexander doesn’t even look at me. “Vivienne made a mistake. She got involved with someone… unsuitable. Now she’s pregnant and alone, with no one to turn to. I’ve decided to divorce you temporarily and marry her to protect the child from facing the stigma of being labeled an illegitimate child.”

I stand there in the kitchen doorway, still holding the anniversary cake I spent all morning baking. Chocolate–his favorite.

“We’ll remarry after the baby is born.”

The cake slips from my hands.

It hits the marble floor with a wet splat, chocolate smearing across the white tiles like a

wound.

I stare at the mess, then at my husband of three years, and wait for something inside me to break. For tears to spill. For anger, for any emotion to erupt.

But I feel nothing. My heart is still, grown numb from years of disregard.

I glance down at my own belly–rounder than hers at two months–and nod. “Okay.”

Alexander blinks, clearly surprised I’m not falling apart. He exchanges a glance with Vivienne, then reaches into his briefcase and pulls out a thick stack of papers like he’s been carrying them around all day.

“I had these drawn up yesterday,” he says, setting them on the dining table. “Since this is temporary, I thought we should keep things simple.”

I walk over, my feet trampling on the fallen cake, and flip through the pages, not expecting much. But one line makes my hands freeze.

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The wife leaves with nothing.

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Three years. Three years of being the perfect wife to Alexander Stanley–attending his business dinners, managing his household, sacrificing my career, my dreams, my entire identity.

And I walk away with nothing.

Alexander clears his throat. “Vivienne suggested that clause. Since we’re getting back together anyway, there’s no point complicating things with asset division. It would only cause a headache.”

I look up at Vivienne.

She smiles at me. Sweet. Innocent.

But I know better than to take her at face value.

“You understand, don’t you, Grace?” Her voice is soft, almost kind. “This is just temporary. Alexander loves you. He’s just… doing the right thing for my baby.”

His baby, I think. She means his baby.

Because the child she’s carrying? It’s not from some “unsuitable” man.

It’s Alexander’s.

I can see it in the way he looks at her–protective, possessive, devoted. The way he’s never

looked at me.

“Grace?” Alexander’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “Are you going to sign or not? We need to file the paperwork today.”

I should scream. Throw things. Demand answers. Why should I have to clear the way for a woman who got involved with a man knowing he’s married? I should tell them to screw themselves.

Instead, I pick up the pen, and sign my name in swift, brutal strokes- reducing three years of marriage to two words of ink on paper.

“You’re welcome to stay in the penthouse while you figure things out,” Alexander adds, almost gently. “I’ll move in with Vivienne until… well, until next year. When we remarry.”

Sure we will, I think bitterly.

But I don’t say it out loud.

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Because there’s no way I’ll ever marry him again.

Vivienne snatches the signed papers from my hands like they’re a trophy, then threads her fingers through his.

“We should leave,” she says softly, glancing at me still standing by the table. “We’re late for my ultrasound.”

Alexander nods and takes her hand like it’s the most natural thing.

They walk toward the door together–him supporting her like she’s a fragile, precious gem, and her leaning on him like he’s her lifeline.

And as they cross the threshold, Vivienne shoots me a glance over her shoulder. A little smirk like she’s won, as if to say: You never stood a chance against me.

The door clicks shut behind them.

Still, I remain still, staring at the ruined cake. Then with shaking hands, I pull out my phone.

Not to call a friend.

Not to call a lawyer.

But to schedule an abortion.

We arrive around the same time. At the same women’s clinic.

I sit behind them, filling out paperwork with numb fingers. Alex treats Vivienne like she’s

made of glass–hand on her back, whispering in her ear. She clings to him like they’re the only two people in the world.

They look perfect together.

Around me, other women wait–some with partners, some alone. All of them look like they’re carrying the weight of impossible choices on their shoulders.

I press a hand to my stomach.

Eight weeks.

Barely anything. A cluster of cells. Not even a heartbeat yet. Nothing to feel sorry for. Nothing to feel guilty about.

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