Too Late, Doctor: She Will Never Return

For seven years, I worked three jobs to put my secret husband through medical school and residency.

But on the day of my pregnancy checkup, I discovered that my best friend's devoted fiancé was my husband.

While I was at risk of losing my baby, he held her in his arms and acted as if I didn't exist.

The next day, my best friend's wealthy family and my mother-in-law publicly humiliated me at my office, framing me as a delusional homewrecker.

To protect his fellowship and his new life, my husband threw our real marriage certificate into the trash in front of everyone.

"I don't know where you got that fake marriage certificate," he said. "Stop making a scene. You're hurting my fiancée."

I had sacrificed my youth, my family, and my health for him-only for him to hand my sacrifices over to his mistress and leave me and our unborn child to face a threatened miscarriage alone.

I didn't shed another tear.

I signed the divorce settlement, accepted an immediate overseas transfer, and vanished from their lives completely.

Chapter 1

Jillian Patrick POV:

For seven years, I worked three jobs to put my secret husband through medical school and residency. On the day of my pregnancy checkup, he replied, "Busy."

Ten seconds later, I saw him rush into the clinic, pull my best friend into his arms, and say, "You're carrying my child. These chairs are too hard for you."

I sat on a plastic chair two feet away, my phone screen still lit with that "Busy."

Alexia poked her head out from Derek's arms, smiling so hard that tears gathered at the corners of her eyes. She turned and grabbed my hand. "Jill, this is the Derek I told you about! Isn't he handsome? Derek, this is my best friend from college, Jillian."

Derek's gaze moved from Alexia's face and landed on me.

Three seconds of dead silence.

His pupils contracted. All the color drained from his face. His jaw clenched so hard the muscles in his cheeks jumped. The hand resting on Alexia's waist stiffened into a claw. He knew me. He knew every inch of me. He knew the bank account number I used to wire money into his account on the first of every month.

Then his face went flat, and in a calm, indifferent voice, he extended his hand. "Hello. Alexia talks about you often. It's nice to finally meet you."

I didn't move. His right hand stayed in the air. There was a white scar on the knuckle of his index finger. Five years ago, when he was making our cheap anniversary dinner, he cut his hand while chopping vegetables, and I dug through the medicine cabinet at three in the morning and wrapped it until dawn.

I slowly raised my hand and touched his palm. It was cold. The moment my fingertips touched him, he pulled back like he'd touched a live wire.

"Jill's boyfriend is busy too," Alexia said with a smile, sitting back down and flashing the Cartier diamond bracelet on her wrist. "But my Derek makes time no matter how busy he is. Look, he had this delivered to my apartment this morning. He said a pregnant woman needs to feel pretty every single day."

I glanced down at my own hand. No bracelet. On my ring finger there was only a band of skin paler than the rest-seven years of a wedding ring I had never dared wear in public.

"Did your boyfriend text you back?" Alexia leaned over to look at my screen.

"He said he's busy."

"You need to make him step up," Alexia said, shaking her head. "A man who loves you will make time. Derek adjusted his entire surgical schedule today just to come with me. He even put together a Hawaii itinerary-first-class tickets, a private villa, even scheduled my foot massages between his conference meetings."

I stared at the color-coded spreadsheet on her screen. Three days ago, I had sent Derek a photo of a crib in a shop window near my office. He replied: "Do not buy junk." I closed the chat and never sent him another picture.

"But he replies to you fast," Alexia said, glancing at my lock screen. "At least he checks his messages. My guy sometimes goes three hours without a text because he's in surgery. You're lucky. He's reliable."

"He's probably in surgery." I pressed my hand against my knee.

"He promised he would never make me face something like this alone." Alexia patted her chest and smiled again. "Anyway, let's not talk about that. Today is a happy day. Jill, after your checkup, want to grab lunch together?"

The nurse pushed the door open. "Alexia Morin?"

"That's us!" Alexia started to step forward, but Derek bent down and swept her up into his arms.

"Derek! Put me down, everyone is watching!" She laughed and hit him.

"You're carrying my child," he said loudly enough for the entire waiting area to hear. "Until the doctor clears you for hard floors, you're not walking."

Several older women nearby smiled and sighed. "What a wonderful man."

I stood up, my canvas bag against my stomach, and followed behind them. Derek carried Alexia inside, his back straight. I walked five paces behind, alone.

In the examination room, Derek held Alexia's hand the entire time, staring at the ultrasound screen. The machine filled the room with a steady thump-thump-thump.

"Six weeks and four days. Very strong heartbeat," the technician said.

Alexia cried. Derek's lips trembled, and he kissed her fingers. "We have a baby, Lexi. Our baby."

I stood by the coat rack, my stomach still flat beneath my cotton shirt. The child inside me shared the same man's blood. But in this room, my child and I did not exist.

The technician handed Derek the ultrasound slip. He took it with both hands, pulled out his phone and opened his notes app. "What vitamins should she take? Should she avoid stairs? What about caffeine? She drinks an iced latte every morning."

The technician smiled. "One small cup a day is fine. Just make sure she takes folic acid."

Derek typed rapidly. "I'll make all her meals myself from now on. Organic vegetables. I'll adjust my hospital schedule and drive her to work every day."

I leaned against the wall. Three years ago, on a Tuesday night, I crouched on the bathroom floor of our rented apartment, clutching my lower abdomen while blood soaked through my sweatpants. I called Derek four times. He answered on the fifth, with the noise of the hospital cafeteria in the background.

"Derek, something's wrong," I gasped through the pain. "I think I'm losing the baby."

There was a long silence on the line. Then he let out a slow breath. "Miscarriages are common in early pregnancy, Jillian. It's just abnormal cells passing naturally. Put a heating pad on it and drink some tea. I have an emergency surgery in ten minutes."

He hung up. I sat alone on the bathroom tiles until dawn. The next morning, he walked in, kicked off his shoes, threw his dirty clothes on the floor, saw my swollen eyes, and said, "Stop crying. You're being dramatic. Women miscarry every day. We'll try again when my career is settled."

Now, watching him note down Alexia's iced latte intake, I had only one thought left: Derek wasn't incapable of caring. He was just cold to me.

"You're a model husband." The technician smiled and handed Alexia a pamphlet.

Derek put his arm around Alexia's shoulders and said clearly to the technician, "She is my everything. Her health and our child's future are the only things I care about."

For seven years, I had hidden my wedding ring on a silver chain against my chest because he said going public would make his mother cut off his trust fund. "Just until I finish my fellowship," he promised me over and over. "Then I'll tell everyone." He was about to finish his fellowship. He told everyone Alexia's name. My name was wiped away completely.

Dr. Evans opened the second chart and studied the lab results, her brow gradually knotting.

"Jillian Patrick?" Dr. Evans called.

"I'm here," I said, stepping out from the shadow of the cabinet.

"Please lie down on the examination table, Jillian," the doctor said, her expression grave. "Your emergency blood work from this morning is back. We need to do an immediate pelvic ultrasound."

Alexia paused by the door and turned around, frowning. "Doctor, is something wrong with Jill?"

"Her progesterone and hCG levels are dangerously low," Dr. Evans said bluntly. "The exam shows significant bleeding, and the ultrasound confirms a severe threatened miscarriage."

A cold weight dropped into my stomach. My hands flew to my belly.

"Is the baby gone?" I whispered, my voice breaking.

"Not yet," Dr. Evans said, setting down her tablet after a quick bedside scan. "The gestational sac is still intact, but the situation is critical. Starting today, you need complete bed rest. No lifting, no stress, and progesterone injections as prescribed."

Dr. Evans looked around the small examination room, her eyes moving between me, Alexia, and Derek.

"Who's here with you today?" Dr. Evans asked, looking directly at me. "Where is your partner? I need to speak with him immediately about the injection protocol and make sure you have someone with you at all times. You cannot be left alone right now."

The room fell into dead silence.

Alexia looked at me with deep sympathy. Derek stood by the door, both hands shoved deep into his suit pockets. His taut knuckles pushed against the expensive wool of his trousers. He stared fixedly at the linoleum floor, his lips pressed into a bloodless, paper-thin line. He did not speak. He did not step forward. He did not even dare look at me.

The father of my endangered child stood less than a meter away, playing the role of another woman's devoted fiancé.

I lowered my eyes, swallowed the bitterness rising in my throat, and looked up at Dr. Evans.

"I don't have a partner," I said, my voice steady, clear, and without a tremor. "This baby has no father. As far as I'm concerned, I'm already divorced."