d open to see Keeley Osborn's name blazing on the screen. It was 3 AM. My heart seized in my chest. He grabbed the phone, a low groan

ugh the glass: "What happened?" "Are you okay?" "Don't worry, I'm coming

he bedroom door, then the muffled sound of his car pulling out of the driveway. The bed beside me was suddenly

ails for my freelance editing work, going through the motions. Around ten,

king slightly flustered. "Mr. Harrell

eplied, forcing a smile. "

y Osborn's studio. Something about a last-minute creative block on her new script." He caught my eye, then quickly looked

t a health scare. A creative block. And Emmett, my husband, had abandoned our bed in the dead of night to

was, a new post, uploaded just hours ago. A blurry photo, taken in what looked like a chaotic studio, littered with storyboards and coffee cups. Keeley, her hair disheveled, looking both exhausted a

as E

ys made his eyes look even bluer. My gift, worn for her. The caption under the photo read: "When the muse hits at 3 AM, you

e word felt like a

. They painted a vivid picture of their shared past: the intense film school years, the creative partnership, the almost-production-company, the family opposition. Emmett had even learned basic music composition

ugh her, reliving the dream his family had crushed. And I was the safe, stable wife who al

ed on, though neither of us played. My fingers hovered over the keys, then pressed down, produc

my dreams of publishing. He praised my intelligence, my insight. He made me feel seen, cherished. But now, I saw the irony. He had seen my creat

ed illusion? Who was the real Emmett? The successful architect, o

that had been plaguing me for days. I rushed to the bathroom, leaning over t

t at midnight: "Client dinner running late. Don't

envelope clutched in my hand. The doctor had been kind, her voice soft. The nausea, the e

preg

dn't be worse. My marriage felt like a house of cards, ready to collapse at the slightest breath. And now, a baby. A new life caught in the crossfire of a w