His First Love Killed My Unborn - Chapter 10: Chapter 10
You are reading His First Love Killed My Unborn, Chapter 10: Chapter 10. Read more chapters of His First Love Killed My Unborn.
I answered coldly, "Whatever happened between you and her is none of my business. I don't want to see you before the trial."
Hanging up, I felt a small weight lift off my shoulders.
Soon, he'd be nothing more than a stranger to me. No more fights, no more pain—just silence.
But Ian didn't give up that easily.
Right before the trial, he showed up at my doorstep with two gold bracelets, a massive bouquet of roses, and a desperate plea. Kneeling outside my door, he sobbed, "Sherrie, please—open up. I know you're in there. I messed up, I swear."
I called security.
He refused to leave, hurling insults at them until the commotion drew the entire neighborhood. People shouted at him to go away, but he only got angrier—soon, fists were flying.
Terrified, I dialed 911.
They hauled him off to the station for disorderly conduct.
By the day of the trial, Ian had just been released. He stumbled into the courtroom, unshaven, dark circles under his eyes—looking like he'd aged a decade.
I laid out everything: the proof of his affair, the medical records from the miscarriage he'd caused. His eyes burned into me, shock and fury twisting his expression.
The trial was swift. Thanks to Paula, the judge ruled our marriage irreparably broken. The divorce was finalized.
As the guilty party, Ian walked away with almost nothing—just the clothes on his back.
Stepping outside the courthouse, the spring sun warmed my skin. The air smelled crisp, sweet—like freedom. I tilted my head back, eyes closed, just breathing it in.
Ian emerged moments later. He hesitated, lips parting like he wanted to say something. But in the end, he just turned and walked away, defeated.
I couldn't bear to go back to the house we'd shared—too many ghosts. So I called a realtor and put it on the market.
Thanks to the prime location, it sold fast. After paying off the mortgage, I pocketed an extra $500K.
I blocked Ian's number, scrubbed him from my socials, erased every trace of him from my life.
Paula stopped reaching out too. Her Instagram went silent—no posts, no updates.
Slowly, things got better.
After two months of rest, my body healed. On bright spring mornings, I'd visit my baby at the cemetery. Bees hummed, butterflies danced—flowers bloomed in bursts of color.
My parents begged me to move back home, but I refused. I knew my baby would've wanted me to keep living.
Six months later, I used the $500K to open a flower shop on a bustling pedestrian street.
Ian had been allergic to pollen, so I'd given up flowers when we married. Now, I surrounded myself with them every day, doing what I loved.
I started live-streaming, and business exploded—online and off. Within two years, my shop became a local sensation, racking up thousands of followers.
With my career thriving, my parents started dropping hints about "settling down" again. I ignored them. I was happy on my own.
Then one evening, as I was closing up, my phone rang.
An unknown number.
"Hello, Springfield Flower Shop. How can I help you?"
"Sherrie… it's me. It's Mom."
The voice was faint, but familiar—Ian's mother.
"Auntie," I said, my tone guarded. "Why are you calling?"
She hesitated. "I… I need to ask you a favor. Could you—could you come see Ian?"
My stomach dropped.
"That's probably not a good idea," I replied.
"Sherrie, he's—" Her voice cracked. "He's dying. He wants to see you. One last time."
Hanging up, I felt a small weight lift off my shoulders.
Soon, he'd be nothing more than a stranger to me. No more fights, no more pain—just silence.
But Ian didn't give up that easily.
Right before the trial, he showed up at my doorstep with two gold bracelets, a massive bouquet of roses, and a desperate plea. Kneeling outside my door, he sobbed, "Sherrie, please—open up. I know you're in there. I messed up, I swear."
I called security.
He refused to leave, hurling insults at them until the commotion drew the entire neighborhood. People shouted at him to go away, but he only got angrier—soon, fists were flying.
Terrified, I dialed 911.
They hauled him off to the station for disorderly conduct.
By the day of the trial, Ian had just been released. He stumbled into the courtroom, unshaven, dark circles under his eyes—looking like he'd aged a decade.
I laid out everything: the proof of his affair, the medical records from the miscarriage he'd caused. His eyes burned into me, shock and fury twisting his expression.
The trial was swift. Thanks to Paula, the judge ruled our marriage irreparably broken. The divorce was finalized.
As the guilty party, Ian walked away with almost nothing—just the clothes on his back.
Stepping outside the courthouse, the spring sun warmed my skin. The air smelled crisp, sweet—like freedom. I tilted my head back, eyes closed, just breathing it in.
Ian emerged moments later. He hesitated, lips parting like he wanted to say something. But in the end, he just turned and walked away, defeated.
I couldn't bear to go back to the house we'd shared—too many ghosts. So I called a realtor and put it on the market.
Thanks to the prime location, it sold fast. After paying off the mortgage, I pocketed an extra $500K.
I blocked Ian's number, scrubbed him from my socials, erased every trace of him from my life.
Paula stopped reaching out too. Her Instagram went silent—no posts, no updates.
Slowly, things got better.
After two months of rest, my body healed. On bright spring mornings, I'd visit my baby at the cemetery. Bees hummed, butterflies danced—flowers bloomed in bursts of color.
My parents begged me to move back home, but I refused. I knew my baby would've wanted me to keep living.
Six months later, I used the $500K to open a flower shop on a bustling pedestrian street.
Ian had been allergic to pollen, so I'd given up flowers when we married. Now, I surrounded myself with them every day, doing what I loved.
I started live-streaming, and business exploded—online and off. Within two years, my shop became a local sensation, racking up thousands of followers.
With my career thriving, my parents started dropping hints about "settling down" again. I ignored them. I was happy on my own.
Then one evening, as I was closing up, my phone rang.
An unknown number.
"Hello, Springfield Flower Shop. How can I help you?"
"Sherrie… it's me. It's Mom."
The voice was faint, but familiar—Ian's mother.
"Auntie," I said, my tone guarded. "Why are you calling?"
She hesitated. "I… I need to ask you a favor. Could you—could you come see Ian?"
My stomach dropped.
"That's probably not a good idea," I replied.
"Sherrie, he's—" Her voice cracked. "He's dying. He wants to see you. One last time."
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