Blurb：
On their eighth wedding anniversary, Christian Walsh sends Lindsay nine hundred ninety-nine roses—unaware she despises them. Fresh from surgery, Lindsay coldly demands divorce. Christian’s personal assistant Chloe intervenes with tearful apologies, revealing deeper entanglements. As Christian prioritizes work and Chloe over family, Lindsay confronts painful truths about their marriage, motherhood, and the Walsh dynasty’s expectations. A gripping tale of love, betrayal, and resilience featuring complex characters like Christian Walsh, Lindsay, and Chloe. Perfect for fans of emotional contemporary romance and powerful female leads.
Content：
On our eighth wedding anniversary, my husband sent me nine hundred and ninety-nine roses.
Just after stepping out of the operating room, I called him and calmly asked for a divorce.
Over the phone, his young girlfriend’s tearful apology came through,
Mrs. Walsh, it’s all my fault for acting on my own. Please don’t be mad at Mr. Walsh.
Christian Walsh spent a long time soothing her in that gentle tone of his before he finally said to me, “As you wish.”
The next time I saw him was a full two weeks later.
“Make me some paste.”
Christian stumbled in well past midnight. Unlike usual, there was no hot meal waiting on the table.
He frowned instinctively, tossed those words in my direction, and headed straight for the shower.
By the time he came out, his hair still damp and fresh, I was still parked on the couch, flipping through channels.
He pulled a designer handbag from his luggage. “Here, see if you like it.”
It was a bright pink bag—exactly the kind a girl in her twenties would pick.
In the past, when he wanted to apologize, he’d take me to do anything I wanted.
Now, I just get a peace offering chosen by someone else.
I didn’t even glance at it. Flipping channels idly, I asked him,
“So when will you have time to get a divorce?”
Christian was a busy man—too busy to even pick his own anniversary gifts, a task that now fell to his personal assistant.
His schedule was always the priority, and mine was an afterthought.
“Stop making a fuss. Chloe had no idea you can’t stand roses. It won’t happen again.”
He poured himself a small glass of whiskey, sank into the armchair across from me, and gave me a smug little look.
Chloe was Christian’s childhood friend. She’d had a crush on him since they were kids, and right after she finished college, she practically jumped at the chance to be his personal assistant.
They were attached at the hip—even on business trips, they shared the same suite.
Honestly, I never blamed Chloe for following Christian around like a lost puppy.
It takes two to tango.
If he didn’t allow it, she never would have gotten close.
I let out an exaggerated yawn, and my eyes watered a little from the strain.
After a long silence stretched between us, Christian seemed to think the matter was over.
He asked about our seven-year-old son’s recent exam rankings.
I just shook my head. “No idea.”
It wasn’t to spite him—I genuinely didn’t know.
The Walshes were all about that old-money, ivy-league upbringing. Our son had been raised at the family estate since he was toddler, his days scheduled down to the minute.
It was almost funny—I gave birth to him, but I could count the number of times I’ve held him on one hand.
I’d cried and argued over it, but the Walshes didn’t hear of it.
To them, me marrying into their family was the height of my bloodline’s achievement.
Everything else was just a delusion.
Christian pinched the bridge of his nose and told me I needed to be more involved,
“For God’s sake, even Chloe ispends more time with him than you do.”
I knew excatly what he was referring to.
Yesterday was Friday—the only day I was allowed to pick our son up from school.
I got there an hour early. I waited until the sun went down and the school gates were locked.
It was only then that Chloe called to inform me that his grandmother had asked her to bring him straight to the estate for dinner.
Through the phone, I could even hear Christian in background, his voice warm as he asked Chloe if she wanted him to heat up some soup.
Coming back to the present, I gave Christian a cold, mocking smile,
“Well, wouldn’t that just solve all your problems? I’ll step aside, and she can take my place as new Mrs. Walsh.”
I must have hit a nerve, but Christian went quiet for a moment before exploding in anger,
“There’s a limit to my patience.
Lindsay, stop causing so much drama.”
He was already walking away when I said it, my voice flat and detached,
“Oh, by the way, I forgot to tell you—I had a miscarriage.”
One month ago.
On the night he got a call from Chloe and rushed out to comfort her,
I had such terrible abdominal pain that I had to drove myself to the emergency room.
There, I was told I’d been pregnant for over two months, but there was no fetal heartbeat. I was miscarrying.
The most absurd part? When I found out I’d lost the baby, my first feeling was relief.
After coming out of the surgery alone, I knew it was finally time to end this.
In the living room, Christian stood with his back to me, gripping his glass so hard his knuckles were white.
He didn’t ask why I hadn’t called him.
He knew exactly how many times I’d tried to reach him that night.
But his phone had been off.
“Maybe it’s for the best. Let’s be honest, you were never really cut out to be a mother.”
Christian walked toward his study and closed the door firmly behind him.
Eight years of marriage, countless arguments and fights.
I was always the one who would cave first, who would try to smooth things over.
But this time, Christian never heard a timid knock on the door.
Half an hour later, he opened the door and searched the entire, spacious house, but I was already gone.
…
I was Christian’s first love.
No one could have predicted that the cold, handsome son from a good family, the straight-A student,
Would fall for a rebellious, alternative girl who smoked and hung out in rock clubs.
Our first meeting wasn’t exactly romantic—it was in a smelly, dirty alley where scholarship boy was being shaken down for his lunch money by some local troublemakers.
I happened to be cutting through when one of them catcalled me.
So I rode my bike straight into the middle of crowd, sent a couple sprawling, and unintentionally saved the preppy rich kid from a beating.
After that, Christian stuck to me like glue.
He waited for me after school, followed me around—nothing could scare him off.
He gave me roses, which I coldly tossed into the toilet, soaked, and then dumped, dripping, on his desk.
He made me elaborate lunches himself, which I promptly gave to the homeless man who slept by the train tracks.
My friends teased me for having a rich, lovesick puppy.
Anyone could see we were from different planets.
But it was this same person who, when my drunk father beat me so badly I couldn’t go to school, broke into my house, carried my half-conscious self to his car, and sped to the hospital.
While the doctor stitched me up, he stood with his back to me, his shoulders shaking uncontrollably. He was wiping his face with the back of his hand.
The doctor asked, half-amused, why he was the one crying when I was the one getting stitches.
He said he didn’t know why, but his chest hurt so much it felt tight.
He even naively asked if he should get an EKG, just to be safe.
In the hospital room, Christian clumsily peeled an apple.
“I never want to feel this awful again. Lindsay, please don’t get hurt anymore. I’m begging you.”
I ate the ice pop he’d bought me, gave a noncommittal grunt, then glared at him fiercely,
“So, do you want to be my boyfriend?”
For the rest of that day, both of us were blushing mess, barely able to look at each other.
I once told Christian a secret I’d never told anyone.
Every time my dad got drunk and beat my mom within an inch of her life, the next day, a single, wilted rose would appear ion the kitchen table as his apology.
So, if he ever wanted to break up with me, he didn’t need to say a word.
Just one rose would be enough.
“Don’t be silly. We’re going to together forever.”
The eighteen-year-old boy held me tight I could barely breathe, refusing to let me say another foolish word.
To escape my father’s harassment, Christian took me abroad with him to study.
His father, trying to force us apart, cut off all his financial support.
Back then, besides attending classes, we both worked two part-time jobs.
Those days were incredibly hard and busy, but even during quick tooth-brushing breaks, we couldn’t help acting silly and making each other laugh.
In our tiny studio apartment, we were always teasing and playing, our eyes full of nothing but each other.
If only life could have stayed like that forever…
“Ms. Walsh? Are you feeling alright?”
The doctor’s concerned voice brought me back to the present.
It was my third day since moving out of the house, and my insomnia had gotten worse.
While picking up the sleeping pills the doctor had prescribed, I ran into Chloe.
“Mrs. Walsh, why are you doing at the hospital by yourself?”
Chloe blinked her wide, innocent eyes. When I didn’t respond, she continued with fake sympathy,
“Christian told me about the baby… Don’t worry, you’re both still young. There will be other chances.”
“Don’t worry, there won’t be.”
As soon as I said it, I saw Christian walking up, his expression dark.
I didn’t know why he was angry, only that he was holding a small bag from the pharmacy.
Chloe whined to me that she hadn’t been careful on the steps and had slightly sprained her ankle.
Such a minor thing, but Christian had insisted on bringing her to the hospital, even rescheduling his meetings.
It was my turn at the pharmacy counter. Seeing the bag in my hand, Christian couldn’t help but ask,
“What’s wrong? Are you sick?”
When I acted like he wasn’t there and turned to leave, he grabbed the bag, and looked inside, and pulled out the prescription.
“Sleeping pills? Since when do you have trouble sleeping?”
“Lindsay, I’m talking to you. Tell me, how long are you going to keep this little performance up?”
Christian thought my moving out was just a temporary stunt to get his attention.
So even now, he hadn’t bothered to find out where I was staying or how I was doing.
His loud, cold tone as starting to draw stares from people in the waiting area.
A flicker of annoyance crossed my eyes. I took the medicine back and said my voice soft but clear,
“I’m not tperforming.”
Perhaps my calm tone made him think I was backing down.
He suggeated he drop me off at home first, then take Chloe to the office.
But I shook my head.
“Don’t let me keep you from work. I can get home on my own.”
By “home,” I meant going to my own place.
My alcoholic father died in a car accident, leaving me a small insurance settlement.
That house I had been so desperate to escape, the place of so many beatings, had now become my only refuge.
Watching my lonely retrea, Christian pursed his lips and started to take a step, but Chloe grabbed his arm.
She looked pale, claiming she suddenly felt faint—probably a low blood sugar episode.
Christian hesitated for a moment, then turned toward a nearby vending machine instead od following me.
On the day the lawyer finished drafting the divorce papers, I got a call from Christian.
His voice was urgent and serious.
“Our son is sick. Come to the estate before six.”
Before I could ask what was wrong, he hung up.
I printed the agreement and felt a wave of relief.
Arriving at the Walsh family estate, I found the whole family gathered for their usual dinner.
My son was seated right between Christian and Chloe.
To any outsider, they looked like the perfect family of three.
With tears welling in my eyes, I approached my son, whom I hadn’t seen in so long. I touched his cheek and gently asked where he felt unwell.
The little boy, a near-perfect miniature of Christian, pushed my hand away with disgust, glared at me warily, and looked to Chloe for help.
A sharp, needle-like pain pierce my heart.
Chloe pulled my son close affectionately and said with fake innocence,
“Lucas isn’t sick at all, Lindsay. Did you take your medication today? Maybe you misunderstood?”
As soon as she said it, the Walshes looked at me with pure contempt.
I knew they were mocking me, especially Christian’s sister, Camille.
She always thought I was beneath her brother, unworthy.
Before, I’d endured all her snide remarks and mistreatment for Christian’s sake.
But this time, I wasn’t going to take it.
I turned to Christian, “You called and said our son was sick. I rushed over, and now your girlfriend says he’s fine. Which is it? Or are you the one who’s actually sick?”
Unprepared for my directness, Chloe looked panicked.
She opened her mouth to explain, but I cut her off,
“Chloe, if you want to be a homewrecker, that’s your business. But don’t use my son as pawn. Or else, you’ll regret it.”
My blunt words made Chloe turn pale. Tears welled in her eyes instantly.
Smack!
Christian threw down his napikn, his face cold and stern, staring at me,
“Lindsay, all you know is jealousy. Our son has had a cold for days. Have you, as his mother, shown any concern? You were supposed to be here at six. Since you have no sense of time, you can eat in the kitchen with the staff.”
Christian always had the final word.
No one in family dared to defy him.
A hint of triumph flashed in Chloe’s eyes. Pouting, she pretended to feel sorry for me, waiting for the show.
Camille raised an eyebrow at me, her look full of undisguised scorn.
Under everyone’s gaze, I walked toward the housekeeper, Martha.
“Martha, you’re welcome at my place anytime. I’ll cook for you.”
I didn’t want Martha to think eating in the kitchen was a shame.
Then, meeting Christian’s eyes, I gave him a scornful smile,
“You disgust me.”
As I turned to leave, Christian finally lost his composure. He stood up quickly and grabbed my wrist, his brow furrowed with barely contained anger,
“Where do you think you’re going? I didn’t say you could leave!”
His audacity infuriated me,
“It’s none of your damn business! Let go of me.”
Taking her cue, Camille immediately sneered at me,
“Lindsay, after all these years, you’re still the same—no manners at all. Trash will always be trash.”
To my surprise, Christian turned and snapped at Camille,
“Shut your mouth!”
While he was distracted, I broke free.
The burning pain on my wrist ignited years of pent-up rage.
Scanning the room, my chilling gaze finally landed on Camille’s smug, ugly face. I asked her,
“You want to see what real bad manners look like?
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