The Midnight Show That Ended with My Husband’s Affair Chapter 06

The Midnight Show That Ended with My Husband’s Affair Chapter 06 I Vanished

Three days later.

Spencer returned home after finishing his hospital vigil over Summer.

He expected to find me red-eyed and ready to compromise-or, like every other fight in the past seven years, a warm bowl of hangover soup waiting on the table.

But the house was dark. His shoes were still kicked aside just as he had left them.

Spencer frowned and walked straight to the living room.

“Lena?”

He turned on the light. “Stop sulking. Summer is stable now. We can talk.”

No answer.

He reached the coffee table. His eyes stopped cold.

On the table lay two documents, neatly placed.

On top: divorce papers.

The wife’s signature was there-no hesitation, no erasure.

The terms were clear: she would take nothing. No assets, no alimony.

Beneath the divorce papers was a form.

Spencer’s pupils shrank.

It was a D&C consent form from the hospital’s family planning unit.

The patient’s signature: Lena Foster.

The date three days earlier. The same day he had left her doubled over in pain, rushing out to save Summer.

Just then, the lock clicked. Flynn Dawson let himself in.

He was about to crack a joke when he saw Spencer frozen by the table. Then his eyes landed on the two documents.

The bottle of wine in Flynn’s hand nearly shattered on the floor.

He picked up the paper. His face drained of color.

“What… what is this? A D&C? Lena was pregnant? And she terminated it?”

Flynn’s eyes went wide, his voice shaking.

“Spencer, are you insane? Your wife was hemorrhaging on an operating table, and you were in the next ward with that Summer?”

Spencer stared at the form, his fingers tightening at his sides.

Slowly, he reached out, took the paper from Flynn’s hand, and let out a cold laugh.

“Flynn, you’re a lawyer. Don’t just look at the surface.”

He tossed the form back onto the table. His expression was arrogant, utterly sure of himself.

“Do you really think a woman eight weeks pregnant, hemorrhaging heavily, could walk home by herself calmly forge these documents, and draft a perfect divorce agreement?”

“Forged? You think it’s fake?” Flynn stammered.

“Lena has always been rational. She knows exactly what matters to me.”

Spencer pinched the bridge of his nose, his voice dripping with condescension.

“She knew crying wouldn’t work, so she faked this surgery note-an extreme tactic to test my limits, to force me to choose between her and Summer.”

Flynn stared at Spencer’s supremely confident face, still uneasy.

“But the blood on it-”

“Get some blood from a butcher. Not exactly hard.”

Spencer cut him off impatiently.

“Where can she go? She’s been blacklisted; she has no money, no career. Her only asset left is the title ‘Mrs. Whitmore.”

He walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, gazing at the city lights below. A small smile curled his lips.

“No need to search. Within two weeks, once she realizes her cheap tricks won’t work on me, she’ll come back on her own.”

He was so certain.

He believed his legal logic gave him absolute control over the marriage, over Lena’s every move.

But time was a sharp blade, and it had begun to cut through his arrogance.

Two weeks.

A full two weeks passed.

I had vanished. I hadn’t used any of the unfrozen cards. I hadn’t contacted any mutual friends And 1 hadn’t come crawling back, begging him to drop the lawsuit, as Spencer had so confidently predicted

One late autumn night, Fairhaven saw its second heavy snow.

Spencer stumbled home from a drinking event-a crisis-management session to contain Sunner’s PR disaster. He was blind drunk.

He pushed open the door, didn’t even close it, and suddenly his stomach twisted into a knot of searing pain.

“Ah-”

Clutching his cramping stomach, his legs gave way. He hit the floor hard.

He curled up in agony, reaching out into the empty air.

“Lena… get my medicine… my stomach…”

Silence.

No hurried footsteps. No warm hands rubbing his stomach. No perfectly tempered water and hangover pills.

Spencer’s eyes flew open in the dark.

He gasped, scrambled to his feet, and frantically turned on every light in the living room.

That was when he noticed the plants in the corner-my beloved plants-had withered and died.

He stumbled upstairs to the walk-in closet and yanked open the doors.

His suits hung neatly. But the pressed shirts, the ones I used to iron without a single wrinkle-gone.

The whole house felt drained of life and warmth overnight.

The next morning. Spencer sat in his car, head pounding, ready to drive to the office.

Out of habit, he turned on the car radio.

At this hour, there was usually morning music. And at ten o’clock every night, that voice would come on: “You’re listening to Late Night Heart-to-Heart. I’m Lena Foster.”

But now-

Only static.

Spencer slammed the brakes.

He stared at the radio screen, his hands gripping the wheel until his knuckles went white.

Suddenly, he realized. He had taken her care for granted. Her voice. The way she kept the house running.

He had always thought I needed him.

Now he knew the reality.

He grabbed his phone like a madman and dialed Flynn.

“Flynn!”

“Search. Use every contact you have. Pull every traffic camera. Check her passport records, flights, and trains. She can’t just disappear. Find her. Bring her back.”