Confront My Ex at the Postnatal Care

The crystal chandelier at Golden International Postnatal Care cast a warm yellow glow. I straightened the badge pinned to my chest and approached the man entering through the door. The moment our eyes met, my fingertips clutching the folder tightened slightly. It was Tristan Gray. My ex-husband—the man I loved with my entire youth and have spent countless days and nights trying to forget. Six years apart, he had shed his youthful awkwardness. His bespoke suit emphasized his upright posture, yet his eyes now carried a deeper, more settled weariness. "Hello, Ms. Hernandez." He spoke first, his tone measured and polite, betraying no hint of former affection. I stifled the emotions stirring inside me, keeping a professional smile: "Hello, Mr. Gray. Are you here to settle Ms. Hill's discharge paperwork?" His assistant handed me the relevant documents. "Thank you." His gaze stayed on my face for two seconds, with a faint, almost imperceptible hint of curiosity, "How have you been these past few years?" "Quite well, thank you for asking." I lowered my eyes to check the information, avoiding his gaze. "Ms. Hill is recovering well, and all the expenses have been clearly calculated. You just need to sign here after confirming everything." He took the pen and signed, the tip pausing on the paper. "I didn't expect to see you here. How long have you been working here?" "Just recently." I replied briefly, not wanting to engage with him any further. After completing the checkout procedures, he didn't leave immediately. Instead, he stood by the front desk, casually chatting as if by chance, "The Golden's service is truly excellent. Back then..." He hadn't finished speaking when I had already opened the computer system, preparing to archive the records. As I moved the mouse, a familiar name and record popped up—six years ago, Julia Hernandez checked into the top-tier suite, noted for post-miscarriage recovery, with the registered family contact listed as "Husband: Tristan Gray." My heart felt as if it was being squeezed tightly by an invisible hand, aching intensely and unrelentingly. So it turns out that six years ago, when I lost that unborn child, I had stayed right here. And the husband back then was exactly this man, now pretending to be concerned. Tristan kept speaking, but I could no longer catch what he was saying. It wasn't until my colleague gently touched my arm that I snapped back to reality. He had already left; only his assistant remained, holding a fresh bouquet of white roses. Curious, my colleague asked, "Julia, is this Mr. Gray someone you know?" I looked at the bouquet of white roses, my voice calm and steady: "Yes, my ex-husband."