The Wife He Forgot to Love Chapter 08

The Wife He Forgot to Love Chapter 08

My body gradually healed. The band’s gigs picked up, and we started getting invitations to music festivals.

After one festival performance, I was packing up backstage when I looked up and saw Ethan standing there.

He was holding a bouquet—white tulips, my favorite.

“Great show,” he said, handing them over, his voice rough.

I didn’t take them. Just looked at him. “Something you need?”

His arm hung in the air, flowers extended, before he finally lowered them.

“Eve, is there really no chance for us?” He looked at me, eyes red-rimmed, clinging to a last thread of hope.

“Ethan,” I set my bass down and faced him squarely.

“Do you remember the question I asked you at the mall that day?”

He flinched in pain—he remembered.

“I asked you, if Vivian and I both needed you, who would you choose.”

I repeated it calmly.

“You didn’t answer. But your actions gave me the answer.”

“That’s not—that day was because—”

“It doesn’t matter,” I cut him off.

“The answer itself doesn’t matter anymore. What matters is that in that moment, your hesitation made it clear to me: in your heart, she outranked me. Outranked our child.”

“I can’t get past that.”

I almost pulled up Vivian’s messages to confront him, but decided to keep what little dignity I had left.

I slung my bass over my shoulder and turned to leave.

“Eve!” He called after me, his voice cracking.

“What if—what if I told you I’d let her go a long time ago, and that I love you, I just didn’t realize it? Would you believe me?”

I stopped. Didn’t turn around.

“Ethan, a broken mirror doesn’t go back together. Some wounds stay open forever.”

“What’s between us ended a long time ago.”

“If you feel any guilt at all—just sign the papers.”

With that, I opened the door and walked out.

Leaving him—and all that heavy past—behind me.

Ethan eventually signed the divorce papers.

Outside the courthouse, Quinn walked out with me.

Ethan stood by his car, as if waiting for me.

He came over, his expression complicated. “Eve—”

“Mr. Hartwell,” I cut him off, polite and distant.

“From now on, it’s Evelyn.”

His throat tightened, pain flickering in his eyes.

“My lawyer will handle the rest.”

I had no desire to linger.

“I’ve got things to do. Goodbye.”

“Eve!” He called out again.

“I’m sorry.”

I stopped, turned, and looked back at him.

The sun hit him, still handsome, but worn and haggard.

This man—I’d loved him once. I’d dreamed of a future with him.

But that was all gone now.

“It’s in the past,” I said.

That was the last thing I gave him. The only response I could offer.

Not hate. Not love.

Just—over.

I turned and walked toward the band’s van waiting at the curb. My friends waved from inside.

As I climbed in, the van pulled away. In the rearview mirror, Ethan’s figure grew smaller and smaller until it vanished around the corner.

“You okay?” a friend asked.

“Yeah,” I shook my head, looking out at the passing streets, and let out a long, slow breath.

Later, I caught scattered news about him and Vivian from different sources.

Vivian’s reputation never fully recovered from the scandal.

Word was she and Ethan had a complete falling out—because he’d stopped cooperating with her PR efforts, she’d lost a ton of resources and opportunities, and their friendship—or whatever it was—dissolved entirely.

Ethan’s career didn’t suffer much. He kept dominating the business world as always.

But I heard his demeanor had changed. He’d become quieter, more withdrawn, barely socializing outside of work.

Those stories reached me like news about strangers—they didn’t stir a single ripple in my heart.

My band signed with a decent indie label. We started working on our debut album.

Life filled up with songwriting, rehearsals, and gigs—busy, but fulfilling.

I got a cat. Rented a bright, spacious apartment with a small balcony where I could practice and watch the sunset.

Sometimes, I still think of the baby who never came. A flicker of pain passes through me.

But more often, I think about the future.

I know that after taking a long, winding detour, my real life is finally back on its own track.

Another winter turned to spring.

Our band’s debut show was booked at a 10000-capacity venue.

The crowd was packed, the lights converging on center stage.

I stood there, bass in hand, looking out at the shimmering eyes of everyone who’d come for the music.

The first chord rang out. I closed my eyes and let myself sink into it.

This time, the spotlight was only for me—for us.

I was no longer anyone’s shadow, no longer anyone’s accessory.

I was just me.

Evelyn Nightingale.

Bassist. Evelyn Nightingale.

The song ended to thunderous applause.

I smiled and bowed deeply to the audience.

My story was just beginning.