Chapter 1

The words hit me in the lobby of our building.

Julian' s face, usually so open and loving, was a mask on the TV screen.

He stood beside Liv Cartwright, his arm around her shaking shoulders.

"Liv' s child is mine," he announced to the reporters.

His voice was firm, protective.

"It was a moment of weakness, before the... incident."

The implication hung heavy in the air, thick and suffocating.

My child, then, was the product of the robbery, the assault.

The world tilted.

The reporters' flashes were like explosions in my eyes.

My hand went to my stomach, where our baby, my baby, was growing.

A baby conceived in love, now tainted by his lie.

The doorman looked at me with pity.

I wanted to scream.

I found Julian in our penthouse, pacing.

Liv was gone, probably whisked away to some safe haven.

"How could you?" My voice was a raw whisper.

He stopped, ran a hand through his hair.

"Ellie, you have to understand. Liv... she' s fragile. The assault, the pregnancy... if it all came out, it would destroy her."

"And me?" I asked, the words tearing from my throat. "What about me, Julian? What about our child?"

He looked away. "She can' t handle the scandal. It' s just for a little while. Until she' s stable."

His words were a cold dismissal of my pain, my reality.

He chose her. He chose to sacrifice me, our baby, on the altar of Liv' s supposed fragility.

Despair washed over me, cold and complete.

His priorities were clear. I wasn' t one of them.

"I want a divorce," I said, the words tasting like ash.

He barely looked up from his phone, where messages from Liv were no doubt pinging.

"Fine," he said, distracted.

Later, his assistant called.

"Mr. Vance asks that you handle the divorce paperwork, Mrs. Hayes. He trusts your judgment."

Indifference.

Not even the decency to speak to me himself.

My resolve hardened.

The sting of his neglect was a fresh wound on top of the gaping one he' d already inflicted.

I called Marcus, my brother.

His voice was a calm anchor in my storm.

He put me in touch with the Astor family' s best lawyer.

The next day, I sat in a sterile office, signing papers.

"There' s a ninety-day reconciliation period, Mrs. Vance," the lawyer said gently.

I nodded.

I signed my name.

Then, where Julian' s signature was required, I paused.

The lawyer looked at me.

"He authorized me to sign on his behalf," I said, my voice steady.

I wrote his name, Julian Vance, a name that once meant everything.

Now, it was just ink on a page, severing our lives.

There would be no reconciliation.

The child.

Our child.

His lie made it a constant, public reminder of his betrayal, of the shame he' d forced upon me.

I couldn' t bear it.

I couldn' t bring a child into this world under such a shadow.

My family doctor recommended a private clinic, discreet and professional.

The decision was agony, a tearing of my soul.

But I made it.

I called the clinic that same day.

I would erase this part of him, this part of us, from my body.

It was a desperate act of self-preservation.

The anesthesia was cold.

Before it took hold, memories flooded in.

Julian, on one knee in a small Parisian bistro, a single, perfect rose in his hand.

His eyes, full of adoration.

"Eleanor Hayes, you are my world. Marry me."

The grand sculpture he commissioned when I won my first major architectural award, a sweeping abstract form that mirrored my design.

His unwavering support when a controversial project faced public backlash.

"We' ll face them down together, Ellie. Always."

Always. Such a fragile word.

The vows.

Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows of the old New England church.

His voice, deep and resonant, filled the sacred space.

"To love, honor, and cherish, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, forsaking all others, as long as we both shall live."

I believed him.

Our life felt perfect, a harmonious duet.

The irony was a bitter pill.

The man who made those vows was gone, replaced by a stranger who prioritized a childhood friend over his wife and child.

Liv.

She' d always been there, a shadow in the background of Julian' s life.

"She' s like a sister to me," he' d explained years ago. "Her family helped mine when we were kids. I owe them."

I accepted it.

I trusted him.

She was just Liv, a part of his past.

I never saw her as a threat, never imagined she could be the catalyst for such devastation.

My naivety felt foolish now.

The pattern had been there, subtle at first.

Liv' s calls at odd hours.

Julian rushing off to help her with some minor crisis.

Our anniversary dinner, meticulously planned, abandoned because Liv "had a nightmare" and needed him.

I made excuses for him, for her.

Resentment simmered, a low heat beneath the surface.

I sacrificed my plans, my desires, my well-being, piece by piece.

He took it all, oblivious.

Then came the robbery at the charity gala venue.

The terror. The violation.

And then, his public declaration.

Disowning our child, claiming hers.

That was the final, unbearable act.

The breaking point.

My love for him shattered, irrevocably.

I would not be the wife of such a man.

I would not be the mother of a child publicly shamed by its own father.

He had abandoned us. Now, I was abandoning him.

I returned to the penthouse from the clinic, my body aching, my soul hollow.

The elevator doors opened onto a scene of domestic bliss.

Julian was there, in the living room.

He was gently stroking Liv' s hair.

She was curled up in my favorite armchair, the one overlooking Central Park.

She was recounting her "fears," her voice soft and trembling.

He listened with rapt attention, his face a study in tender concern.

They were celebrating her condition, her pregnancy.

My pregnancy, the one I had just ended, was a ghost in the room.

The pain was a physical blow, doubling me over.

I must have made a sound.

Julian looked up, his eyes finally focusing on me.

He saw my pale face, my unsteady stance.

A flicker of something – concern? guilt? – crossed his features.

"Ellie? Are you alright?"

My desire to scream, to rage, to confront him with the full horror of what he' d done, warred with an overwhelming exhaustion.

The fight had gone out of me.

All that remained was a vast, empty weariness.

He noticed me. Too little, too late.