Friday nights used to be perfect. The smell of roasted chicken, Liam' s smile across the dining table-five years of DINK bliss, just us, no kids, no pets.
Then, he dropped the bombshell: a sponsored student, Sarah, was pregnant. And it was his child.
He swore it wasn' t an affair, a bizarre tale of stolen sperm and his powerful, bloodline-obsessed family. But the consequences were brutally real: Liam, who "didn't like kids," transformed, devoting himself to Sarah and their unborn child. He stripped our shared office to build a nursery, his tenderness reserved for her. My home became haunted by a happiness that was no longer mine.
The final insult came during a fire. Trapped, I screamed his name, but Liam scooped up a cowering Sarah, whispering, "Our little family will be safe." He left me, choking on smoke, as a burning beam crashed down on my back.
I survived, barely. But when I woke, he was asking for a temporary divorce. "It's just for the birth certificate," he said. "Then we'll remarry." Was I really supposed to wait for him while he built a life with another woman, using my name for their child?
No. Not anymore. I pulled out my IV. I was leaving. For good.