Chapter 1 - The Cold Truth at 10:17 AM
Five minutes flat after the divorce was signed, my ex looked me up and down and spat out: "Keep the girls. I’m expecting a real son now."
I didn't make a scene. I took my two daughters and fled the country. Meanwhile, his entire clan was crowding around the ultrasound screen of his new girlfriend, hysterical at the thought of welcoming the one they were already calling "the heir."
But right in the middle of the appointment, the OB-GYN froze, stared at the screen, checked the file again, and dropped a question that sent a deathly chill through the room. Everyone turned toward her... and my ex-husband’s arrogant smile vanished.
Five minutes after my divorce, I was leaving the country with my children.
The clock in the law office read 10:16 when I scribbled my signature on the last page of the divorce agreement. One stroke of the pen to shatter eleven years of marriage.
For over a decade, I had been Chloé Bastien-Laurent. At 10:17 sharp, I was Chloé Laurent again. Period.
I had played this scene over and over in my head for months. I thought I’d be shaking like a leaf. I’d imagined myself sobbing when I saw my real maiden name written on the paper. I thought a voice deep inside would scream at me to stop everything, refusing to believe that a whole decade could end on a mundane conference table.
Zero. Nada. None of that happened. Instead, there was an absolute—almost eerie—calm. It was like smashing the window of a sinking car to take a huge gulp of fresh air. For the first time in ages, the future was looking brighter.
Sitting across from me was the guy who had just officially become my ex: Antoine Bastien. He barely acknowledged my presence.
Antoine signed his copy, tossed it to the mediator, and immediately whipped out his smartphone. Not a glance. Not a word to close the chapter. Not a damn goodbye after eleven years together. He had already moved on.
The guy dialed a number instantly. "It's a done deal," he said into the phone. He hadn't looked that light and relaxed in months. He stood up, grabbing his car keys. "I'm on my way. Your appointment is still at eleven, right?"
No need to say her name. I knew exactly who was giggling on the other end. Victoria Lemaire. The woman Antoine had spent eight months insisting was "just a colleague—relax."
He’d drilled that line into my head so often I couldn't stand the sound of it. When he was texting at 2 a.m.: just a colleague. When he took off for bogus conferences every weekend: Victoria’s just a buddy. When he set up facial recognition on his phone: I was just a hysterical lunatic making up problems.
I’d eventually just shut up about it. The bullshit was obvious long before he had the guts to own up to it.
But right then, standing in front of me, his face transformed. He smiled. Not the tight, forced grimace he’d worn in front of the lawyer. No. A predatory smile. Delighted. The kind of smile he hadn't given me in ages. "Tell my little guy his dad's on his way," he whispered into the phone.
I looked down at my file. He hadn't wasted any time. Our marriage had been officially dead for all of two minutes, and Antoine was already playing the model family man with her.
He hung up. And for the first time that morning, he stared right at me. A sickening look of pride gleamed in his eyes.
"You heard that, Chloé." I remained stone-faced. He pressed the point. "Victoria's having a boy." A smug little chuckle. "My parents are over the moon. Thank God for that—it makes up for this whole mess."
I studied him for a long moment. That "mess" he spoke of as if it were a piece of broken old furniture? That was our family. Eleven years of loyalty. An apartment we’d paid for together. And above all, two little girls who still believed he was a hero.
But Antoine had saved his best line for last. He slipped his iPhone into his leather jacket and, in the tone of a guy ordering a coffee, dropped the line that confirmed I was making the best choice of my life.
"Keep the girls, Chloé. I’ve got a son on the way now."
I didn't scream. I didn't lecture him on how you don't just throw your own daughters in the trash for a boy. I didn't ask him for a thing.
I just locked eyes with him—coldly. Then I closed my folder, tucked it into my leather bag, and said softly, "Thank you, Antoine. You just made leaving easier."
May you like
He gave a dismissive scoff, already walking toward the door, leaving me alone in the sterile lawyer's office. He was rushing off to his grand family reunion at the clinic, eager to celebrate his precious "heir."
He had no idea that while he was speeding toward Victoria, a private car was already idling outside my apartment building, waiting to take Maya, Lily, and me straight to Charles de Gaulle Airport. By the time he was staring at that ultrasound monitor, my daughters and I would be at thirty thousand feet, bound for a new life in Montreal—far away from his toxic world.
