The Contract That Broke Her Heart

In the second year of my contract marriage to Ethan Wheeler, he terminated the agreement early.

On the anniversary of my mother's death, I accompanied aunt Lily to visit her grave.

Ethan stood at the far end of the cemetery, holding an umbrella for another woman.

Aunt Lily followed my gaze and sneered, tapping my forehead with her finger.

"I told you to hold onto him back then, but you insisted on clinging to your pathetic pride."

"Look at you now. Divorced, childless, and you didn't even keep the man. Who's going to marry you after this?"

I looked at my mother's photo on the tombstone, my voice barely audible.

"It's fine."

"He was never mine to begin with."

I didn't tell aunt Lily that I had tried to keep Ethan.

The night before the contract ended, I stood at his study door in my thin nightgown.

My lower abdomen still ached. I pressed my hand there, my voice hoarse.

"Ethan, can we not get divorced?"

Ethan stopped typing.

The room fell silent for a long time.

He saw my tears. He knew what I'd just lost.

But that moment of vulnerability wasn't enough to change his mind.

After a long pause, he closed his file, his tone indifferent.

"Serena Hart, getting too invested is the biggest taboo in a contractual arrangement."

"Leave with some dignity."

"Don't make me take back even the last bit of sympathy I have for you."

Only later did Ethan realize, too late, that when I asked "can we not get divorced," it was the only chance he'd ever have to keep me.

"Ms. Hart, this is your Relationship Remnant Liquidation Confirmation Form. Please sign here."

I'd just returned from the cemetery when assistant Chloe stood in the entryway of Skyridge Manor, handing me a folder.

The access code had already been deactivated.

I'd had to register at the security office and wait for Chloe's confirmation before being allowed inside.

The liquidation supervisor nodded at me and opened the checklist.

"Ms. Hart, your items are divided into three categories."

"Category One: Marriage Display Items."

He pointed to a gray plastic bin in the center of the living room.

"Wedding photos, rings, formal gowns, jewelry worn at public events---retention period expired, classified as assets pending destruction."

A red barcode label was stuck on the bin: PENDING DESTRUCTION.

I looked at the wedding photo inside.

In the picture, Ethan stood beside me in a black suit, his expression cold and distant.

I had smiled so carefully that day.

Because the photographer had said the bride could move a little closer.

I'd just shifted half a step toward him when Ethan reminded me in a low voice:

"Serena Hart, just cooperate for the camera. Don't cross the line."

I'd thought I smiled gracefully that day.

Now I could see I'd looked desperate to please.

I'd been caught in the rain. My lower abdomen throbbed with a sinking pain.

I endured it and asked:

"What about the second category?"

The supervisor continued reading:

"Category Two: Non-Essential Traces of Cohabitation. Including bunny slippers, handwritten medication notes, study repair tools, tableware, etc."

He picked up a sealed bag.

Inside were the stomach medication labels I'd made for Ethan.

One early morning.

Ethan had stomach pain so severe his face turned pale.

I searched through the medicine cabinet and knelt by the sofa to pour him water.

He kept his eyes closed, his voice low.

"Don't bother. Call the doctor."

I'd smiled and said:

"Mr. Wheeler still needs to stay alive until the doctor arrives."

He'd glanced at me briefly.

But I remembered that glance for a long time.

What I'd taken as the beginning of feelings had only been a risk assessment for him.

"What about the third category?"

The supervisor paused.

"Pregnancy Medical Remnants Archive."

My fingers stiffened.

He continued:

"Ultrasound results, prenatal checkup records, miscarriage records, post-procedure medication lists. The system has determined that these materials may trigger subsequent emotional disputes and unnecessary complications. We need your confirmation on whether to have them sealed by Wheeler Medical or destroyed."

I stood there, unable to speak for a long time.

They even called the child who never got to be born "medical remnants."

The door opened at that moment.

Ethan walked in, bringing the scent of rain with him.

He swept a glance around the living room, his gaze landing on my trembling shoulders.

"Why did you get so soaked?"

He turned to Chloe.

"Get a hot towel."

Chloe returned quickly.

Ethan took the towel, walked over to me, and draped it over my shoulders.

My eyes suddenly burned with unshed tears.

He was always like this.

He could remember that I got cold easily, remember my stomach problems, remember all my little ailments.

But he could never remember that my heart could hurt too.

The liquidation supervisor approached, holding up the box of stomach medication.

"Mr. Wheeler, should this old medication and the handwritten labels be destroyed?"

Ethan glanced at it, barely pausing.

"Keep the medication. She only takes this brand for stomach pain---anything else makes her throw up."

My heart clenched violently.

He still remembered.

I looked up at him.

Ethan saw the look in my eyes.

The next second, his expression cooled.

"It was in the medical records."

He adjusted the towel on my shoulders, his voice steady.

"Finishing the liquidation quickly is better for both of us."

Last night, I'd stood outside his study begging him not to divorce me.

Today, that study stood wide open.

Inside, it was so clean it looked like I'd never existed.

The supervisor handed me a pen.

"Ms. Hart, regarding these relationship remnants, what is your decision?"

I bent down and retrieved my mother's old repair kit from the corner.

I didn't look at any of the notes, the rings, or the wedding photos again.

I looked up at Ethan.

"Destroy them."

Something flickered in Ethan's eyes.

I smiled slightly.

"Since they're all risk remnants anyway, there's no point keeping them."

At eight o'clock the next morning, Chloe's call came right on schedule.

"Ms. Hart, to reclaim usage rights for the restoration studio, you must attend today's separation meeting."

The restoration studio my mother left behind was the last thing I had.

Two years ago, when my mother was gravely ill, she suddenly called me to her bedside and handed me a contract.

"Serena, sign this. After this, no one will dare touch you."

I looked at Ethan Wheeler's name on the contract, completely confused.

What was my mother's relationship with the Wheeler family?

What did she trade to secure all this?

She didn't say anything.

I only knew the basic terms:

Receive the Wheeler family's protection network as Ethan Wheeler's wife, then divorce after two years.

After the divorce, Ethan Wheeler would pay compensation sufficient for my independent living.

During the contract period, neither party could engage in intimate relations.

Two years.

When the marriage term ended, we would part ways.

I asked her why.

She just looked at me, deep exhaustion in her eyes.

"Don't ask anymore. Promise me."

When I signed, I thought I was clearheaded.

Only later did I learn that the person who falls in love first is the biggest fool in any contract.

At ten in the morning, I pushed open the door to the top-floor conference room at Wheeler headquarters.

Three auditors sat at the long table.

Ethan sat at the head.

To his right was Paige Sinclair, Wheeler's Chief Risk Officer.

The woman he'd held an umbrella for.

Paige wore a cold white suit and spoke with disdain.

"Ms. Hart, please sit."

"This is just separation protocol. No need to be nervous."

I sat down.

In front of me lay a thick document.

"Serena Hart Relationship Termination Risk Assessment and Separation Report."

The auditor opened the file.

"Mr. Wheeler, this month's monitoring shows Ms. Hart's emotional dependency index spiked three times."

"Does she currently meet the standard for complete separation?"

My heart grew colder bit by bit.

Their discussion treated me like a project awaiting transfer and disposal.

I turned to look at Ethan.

He wore a dark gray suit, his expression calm, fingers resting on the table.

Paige flipped open the report, her voice merciless.

"Let me add something."

"Ms. Hart, many women mistake protective mechanisms for love."

"Wheeler is helping you complete this separation to restore your independence and freedom."

My stomach cramped painfully.

I instinctively pressed my lower abdomen.

Less than two weeks since the miscarriage, the pain hadn't fully faded.

Ethan's gaze fell on my trembling hand.

He frowned and interrupted Paige.

"Get her water."

Soon, a cup of water was placed in front of me.

He always caught me just before I fell, then pushed me away again.

The auditor continued:

"Regarding Ms. Hart's accidental miscarriage last month leading to emotional breakdown, will this become a potential PR risk for the company?"

I froze completely.

Ethan's expression darkened.

I thought he would lose his temper.

But he only tapped the table.

"Skip that item."

"Mr. Wheeler, the risk assessment must be comprehensive..."

"I said skip it."

His voice was cold and hard.

I picked up the cup of water and forced myself to take a sip.

When the meeting ended, I signed the final "Complete Separation Confirmation."

People gradually left.

Only Ethan and I remained.

I put away my pen and stood up.

"Ethan."

His hand paused while adjusting his cufflinks.

I looked at him.

"In these two years, was there ever a moment when I wasn't just part of the process to you?"

Ethan was silent for a long time.

Finally, he looked up, his tone restrained.

"Don't dwell on meaningless things."

In that moment, even my breathing stopped.

So every day I'd spent hurting was meaningless to him.

I rented an old apartment.

The landlord tossed the keys onto a wooden table.

"Rent is three months up front, utilities are separate, and the corner gets moldy when it rains."

I nodded and paid.

The place was small, the wallpaper was peeling with mold, and the windows didn't close properly.

But here, I didn't need a Wheeler access card.

And no one would record when I slept, when I woke, who I saw, or how many times I cried.

That evening, I opened my mother's repair kit.

At the very bottom, pressed beneath two torn papers, was a small note in my mother's handwriting:

"Serena, when you truly leave the Wheeler family, repair this."

"Don't use the truth to beg for love."

I stared at those words, tears nearly falling.

I put on sterile gloves, prepared separation solution, and moistened the paper edges.

The slightly acidic scent of the solution spread through the air.

That smell was terrifyingly familiar.

After we married, I often worked on old letters in the study.

Ethan would occasionally come in and adjust the harsh white light above my head to warm lighting.

I was afraid of thunder.

On stormy nights in Mistport, he'd change his international conference calls to audio-only and sit in the living room handling emails.

When thunder rumbled, I could look up and see his silhouette.

That silhouette had given me so many illusions.

I'd thought that was what companionship meant.

Until I asked him:

"Ethan, could we have a meal together this weekend? Not a business dinner, just the two of us."

He looked at me in the mirror while knotting his tie and said:

"Serena Hart, don't mistake everyday courtesies for intimacy."

"That's just polite cohabitation."

Later, I got pregnant.

I thought this child might make us different somehow.

But Paige's emails came more frequently each day.

"Pregnancy Emotional Independence Recommendations"

"Non-Essential Companionship Risk Advisory"

"Contractual Relationship Boundary Reminder"

Reading every word made me feel like I was crossing boundaries.

The day I miscarried, Mistport was hit by a torrential storm.

I was in so much pain I couldn't stop shaking. I called Ethan seventeen times.

The eighteenth call finally connected.

But it was Paige's voice on the line.

She was completely calm.

"Mr. Wheeler is handling an urgent matter."

"Ms. Hart, please contact the medical team through proper channels. Don't occupy Mr. Wheeler's private line."

I wanted to say I was bleeding.

I wanted to say I was in so much pain.

But the call had already disconnected.

Ethan made it to the hospital later.

He stood by the hospital bed, his face frighteningly pale.

But his first words were:

"Why didn't you follow protection protocol?"

"Why didn't you bring your life assistant when you went out?"

By then, the baby was already gone.

My body had lost all its strength, with only a thread of life remaining.

I stared at the ceiling and asked him:

"Ethan, will I always rank behind your protocols?"

He was silent for a long time.

Finally, he reached out and tucked in the blanket around me.

"At least protocols won't harm you."

The tip of my repair knife faltered.

I snapped back from the memory.

In the layer revealed by the solution, half of a sharp signature emerged.

"Ethan Wheeler."

My hand trembled, and the knife point cut my fingertip.

I didn't care about the pain. I just stared at that name.

How could it be him?