His Automated Reply Cost Him His Wife Chapter 06

His Automated Reply Cost Him His Wife Chapter 06

That final notice on Nora’s screen—the one that said she was cutting off all contact—I didn’t see it then.

I hadn’t even chased her out of the ballroom.

When Nora walked away, the finality in her posture had annoyed me, but that irritation was quickly replaced by a deeper sense of relief, as if a burden had been lifted.

After the gala, I turned down several invitations from business partners but readily accepted when Mark and a few other college friends suggested the whiskey bar downtown.

Three glasses of Laphroaig later, the smoky peat sliding down my throat, I loosened my tie and sank into the leather sofa.

“Freedom,” I said, swirling the ice in my glass. I grinned. “Finally, some peace. She’s been so unstable lately, like a pressure cooker about to explode.”

Mark, my former roommate and the best man at my wedding, frowned. “Ethan, are you sure about this? Nora isn’t the type to make trouble for no reason.”

“She just has too much free time,” I said, draining my glass. “I have to play the hero. It’s for the greater good. She needs to understand the bigger picture.”

I pulled out my phone, skillfully ignoring the dozens of missed call alerts from Nora, and opened my chat with Lena. *Is the Mount Tam hike still on for tomorrow morning?*

Lena replied almost instantly: *Of course! I baked your favorite lemon pound cake for snacks!* She added a heart emoji.

I smiled, put the phone away, and clinked glasses with the guys again.

At one in the morning, my black Porsche Taycan glided into the driveway.

I pushed open the door to a pitch-black, silent house.

“Nora?” I called out habitually, tossing my keys onto the console. “Get my pajamas for me.”

No one responded.

My voice echoed faintly in the spacious living room before being swallowed by the darkness.

Irritation pricked at me. She was still throwing a tantrum.

I fumbled for the light, kicked off my dress shoes, and stumbled upstairs. The bedroom was also empty, the air carrying an unfamiliar chill. Her side of the bed was neatly made, like a guest room in a hotel that had never been slept in.

My anger flared.

I strode to my nightstand, intending to grab the book I’d been reading to calm down. The moment my hand touched the spine—

I felt something underneath.

A few sheets of paper and a small, cold metal band.

I pulled them out. The first thing I saw was the ring. Not the Tiffany diamond I had given her, but a cheap fake that shone with a plastic gleam. I could even see the rough seam on the inside.

A sense of absurdity washed over me.

Then my gaze fell on the papers. The top page was titled *Divorce Agreement*.

On the last page was Nora Ellis’s signature, calm and resolute, without the slightest tremor.

I let out a contemptuous laugh. Another one of her dramatic threats.

I casually unfolded the white slip beneath the agreement. The UCSF Medical Center logo pierced my eyes.

I thought it was just a bill.

Until my gaze caught the printed diagnosis, cold and merciless.

*Ruptured Ectopic Pregnancy.*

I stared at those words, and the world went silent. The sound, the air, everything vanished, leaving only those three words spinning and exploding in my mind.

Ethan Ward stared at that diagnosis for a full thirty seconds.