Chapter 2 - Message Failed To Deliver

The clock on her phone reads 5:02 a.m. Dawn is still an idea rather than a reality, the sky outside the window pale and undecided. Claire sends the message, drops her phone onto the mattress, and finally lets exhaustion pull her under. She doesn't see it. She doesn't see the quiet system notice beneath the text—message failed to deliver. Lately, life tastes flat. Nothing excites her. Nothing comforts her. And now that she's finally said the words— [We should get divorced]—the tension that's been holding her together snaps all at once. Her body gives up before her mind does. By morning, the fever comes hard and fast. --- When Margaret, the family's longtime housemaid, calls Ethan, he's in the middle of a meeting. She has his private number. She's been with the family for over a decade. That alone is reason enough for him to answer, even now. The moment he picks up, she sighs heavily. "Sir," she says, worry thick in her voice. "Madam has a high fever. The doctor's been here. Are you still in North City? You should come home and see her." Ethan frowns. "The doctor's already seen her?" "Of course. I wouldn't call you otherwise. But still... you're her husband. You should come back." "Will seeing me make her recover faster?" His tone is cool, detached. "I don't recall having that ability." He ends the call and looks back at the conference room. "My apologies," he says calmly. "Let's continue." Yet his focus fractures. Claire hasn't spoken to him since her father's birthday—the one he didn't bother attending. She's been distant, silent, stubbornly quiet for over two weeks. No messages. No calls. And for reasons he refuses to name, the silence irritates him. He keeps checking his phone, almost unconsciously, until annoyance turns into something sharper. In a fit of impulse, he deletes her contact. Out of sight. Out of mind. Days pass. She doesn't add him back. Fine, he thinks bitterly. Then don't. "Mr. Lowe?" someone calls. "Mr. Lowe?" He snaps back to attention, stunned by the realization that he's been zoning out—in his own meeting. That alone unsettles him. "I'm sorry," he says abruptly. "We'll end here for today." --- Maple Ridge Residence is quiet when he arrives. Margaret's eyes light up the moment she sees him. "Sir, you're finally back." He heads upstairs without slowing. "How is she?" "The fever's coming down. Slowly." The master bedroom door opens to a familiar yet distant sight. Claire lies curled beneath the covers, hair loose against the pillow, her face flushed an unhealthy red. Even in sleep, her brow is faintly furrowed, as though rest is something she has to fight for. The last time Ethan stood in this room feels like another lifetime. His grandfather had insisted on recovering here after leaving the hospital. Three months of enforced domesticity. Three months of sharing a bedroom with a woman he barely tolerated. Back then, Claire had tried—tentatively, awkwardly—to cross lines he never allowed. He remembers scoffing, throwing sharp words her way, expecting persistence. Instead, she'd stopped. Completely. From then on, she slept as far from him as possible, silent, distant, until the old man moved back to his retirement villa. Now, sick and defenseless, she looks... smaller. Quieter. Easier to look at, he thinks, and immediately dislikes the thought. He's never liked her. Not from the beginning. She could have been anyone else—a classmate, a stranger, some distant poor relative—and he wouldn't have cared. But his wife? Absolutely not. In his mind, Claire is shallow. Ambitious in the wrong way. Pretty, perhaps, but empty. She knows nothing of culture, art, refinement. No depth. No grace. Vulgar. Unpresentable. Marriage, to him, was punishment—hers. After the wedding, he treats her like a stranger in his own home. He wants her to understand that being Mrs. Lowe is not a privilege she deserves. He wants her to regret choosing him. Three years pass. She endures. That alone surprises him. A memory surfaces uninvited: her sitting alone at the long dining table, sunlight spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows, four simple dishes laid out before her. Eating quietly. Patiently. Like a woman waiting for a life that never shows up. He stands at the bedside now, watching her sink into the softness of the mattress. Small face. Delicate features. Married, yet alone. A husband in name only. For a fleeting moment, he wonders—late at night, when no one is watching—does she regret it? The answer comes swiftly. Of course not. She's living the life she wanted. The mansion. The money. His monthly allowance. What could she possibly regret? "Sir," Margaret says softly. "You really should try to live properly with her. Sometimes, when I look at her, I feel... she's pitiful." "Pitiful?" Ethan scoffs. "She's enjoying herself, isn't she?" "What young woman lives like this and isn't pitiful?" Margaret hesitates, swallowing the words a living widow. "Youth is precious. Once it fades, it doesn't come back. You shouldn't let it gather dust like this." She's practically raised him. She knows his flaws. She also knows Claire is kind, attentive, someone worth keeping. She's afraid he'll regret it one day. But Ethan doesn't want to hear it. His voice sharpens. "Why make her sound so wronged? She insisted on this marriage. If she feels mistreated, why hasn't she asked for a divorce? The Lowe family has never stopped her from leaving." If she wastes her youth, that's her choice. He didn't force her. "I... did." The voice is weak. Hoarse. Both of them freeze. Claire's eyes open slowly, unfocused, pain etched between her brows. She's awake. How long has she been listening? Margaret gasps, rushing forward. "Madam—" Ethan stills, his expression carefully blank. "Didn't you get my message?" Claire asks, looking at him. Only then does he notice her swollen eyes, red-rimmed, unmistakably from crying. Margaret panics. "Madam, he didn't mean it. He came back the moment I called. He cares about you—" "Margaret," Ethan interrupts, uncomfortable heat creeping up his neck. "That's enough." He turns back to Claire. "What message?" She studies his face for a moment, then lets out a quiet, helpless laugh. "You deleted me again." Not a question. A tired observation. He hums awkwardly. "Just add me back." She shakes her head. "No." His hand clenches. "What do you mean, no?" Claire smiles faintly. Weak. Gentle. As though she's already let something go. "Let's not add each other anymore," she says softly. "Ethan... let's just end it like this." Something in his chest tightens, sharp and sudden. Before he can react, her eyes fill with tears. "Let's get a divorce." Silence crashes down. Margaret panics. "Madam! Don't say that—why would you divorce? Everything's fine—" "Is it?" Claire whispers. "This life?" Margaret falls quiet. No one knows better than she does how lonely Claire's days have been. Money means nothing when you're rotting alone in a mansion. She wants Ethan to change. To realize what he's losing. "Madam, he was just angry. Sir, say something!" Ethan swallows. "You're sick. Get better first." He turns to leave. "I'm serious," Claire says, louder now. "Ethan, listen to me." "We should divorce." He looks back at her, eyes dark. "Do you know what you're saying?" "I do. I'm clear-headed." Margaret begs, "You're just burning up. Once you're better—" "Didn't you say it yourself?" Claire murmurs. "A woman's youth is precious." No one speaks. Finally, Ethan says coldly, "You asked for it. Don't regret it. I'd be more than happy." He leaves. Margaret calls after him, desperate. "Sir! You'll regret this—no one else will put up with you like she does!" He stops at the door. "Do you think I'm that terrible?" he asks quietly. She stammers. "No—of course not. You're brilliant, handsome—" "Then what's the problem?" He looks back once more at the bed. "Is she really that irreplaceable?"