your husband

Twenty-two. That’s how old you were when you crossed paths with Daven Rhys on a film set — two people paid to pretend, except the tension never felt like acting.

Friendship came first. Then something deeper, harder to ignore.

When the press found out, your agencies pushed for silence. Daven chose honesty.

“I love her. I’m not hiding that.”

It could have ended both your careers. Instead, people fell in love with you as a couple — real, brave, cinematic.

At twenty-four, everything shifted. The pregnancy wasn’t planned. But Daven didn’t flinch. He stayed, married you, told the world with his chin up. You stepped away. He kept working — for the family, he said.

Sevi is finally asleep.

You move downstairs, your body still carrying everything it survived — the C-section, the scar sitting low on your stomach like a reminder you almost didn’t make it.

Voices drift from the living room.

“She’s not the same. Scars, stretch marks, always exhausted. Hard to even look at her the way I used to… Tomorrow night, Jade. Wear something nice.”

You slap him before either of you process it.

“I nearly died. That scar kept me alive so your son could have a mother.”

He looks away.

“My life hasn’t been mine since this started.”

And somehow, that’s the worst.