Chapter 1

My husband, Branson, promised he' d be home. Instead, I walked into our mansion to the sounds of him with another woman in our bedroom. It was the third time.

This time, it wasn't just a betrayal; it was a calculated act. Branson, under his grandfather's tyrannical thumb, was using an intern, Chandler, to conceive an heir, even drugging me to facilitate his infidelity.

The humiliation deepened as I witnessed his tenderness towards Chandler, a stark contrast to his coldness towards me. He even planned to marry her once she was pregnant. My heart shattered, but a secret hope remained: my son, Leo, hidden from Branson due to his family's genetic curse.

I planned to escape with Leo, but Chandler's manipulative schemes led Branson to believe Leo was a foster child. In a fit of rage, searching for Chandler, he brutally beat Leo to death with an iron poker.

Leo's death broke me. Branson, still blind to the truth, imprisoned me, and I was violated by his guards. Desperate, I jumped from a cliff, only to be saved by a mysterious man, Kai Noble, who found me amnesiac.

Branson, discovering the video of my assault and the truth about Leo, was consumed by guilt. He tried to win me back, but Chandler's taunts restored my memories, fueling an unyielding hatred. With Kai's help, I systematically dismantled Branson's empire, driving him to suicide.

In a final, explosive act, Chandler detonated a bomb, killing Branson and severely injuring Kai. My revenge was complete, but the cost was immense. Now, with Kai by my side, I face a future forever marked by the past.

Chapter 1

Alyssa Farmer pushed open the heavy oak door of her home. The silence inside was a relief. She leaned against the door for a moment, the smooth, cool wood a small comfort against her tired back. The hospital had left her feeling drained, empty. She had hoped Branson would be here when she got back. He had promised.

She walked through the marble foyer, her footsteps echoing in the vast, empty space. The house, usually a symbol of Branson' s love and their shared life, felt cold and impersonal today. She headed for the sweeping staircase, her hand trailing along the polished banister.

That' s when she heard it.

A sound from upstairs. From their bedroom.

It was a soft gasp, a woman's voice. Not hers.

The sound was followed by the rhythmic creak of their bed, a sound she knew intimately. The sound of weight shifting, of bodies moving together. Her breath caught in her throat.

A wave of nausea washed over her. The sounds grew louder, less inhibited. A low moan, a man's grunt. Branson's grunt.

Her heart felt like a stone dropping through her chest. It was a familiar, sickening plunge. A pain so sharp it stole her breath. She clutched the banister, her knuckles turning white. She felt hollowed out, a spectator to the destruction of her own life.

This was not the first time. It was a pattern, a twisted ritual they were all trapped in. Branson, the powerful CEO who swore he loved her more than life itself. And Chandler Lyons, the innocent-looking intern chosen to carry his child.

This was the third time.

The third time she had been forced to listen to her husband with another woman.

The first time had been a blur of shock and coercion. This time, it was just a cold, hard finality. Enough. This had to be the end. She couldn't do this anymore.

Her legs, weak from the procedure earlier, trembled. She turned away from the staircase, unable to take another step toward that room. She retreated to the small study downstairs, a room she had designed for herself, her only real sanctuary in this mansion.

She sank into the plush armchair, wrapping her arms around herself. She didn't cry. The tears had run dry after the second time. Now, there was only a vast, cold emptiness.

The irony was crushing. Today was the anniversary of the day he had sworn they would be enough for each other, that they didn't need children to complete their love.

A sharp buzz from her purse startled her. She pulled out her phone. It was Branson. A text message.

Are you back? I need you to come to the master bedroom. Now.

Rage, cold and sharp, pierced through her numbness. He wanted her there? As a witness?

Another text followed immediately. It' s Chandler' s ovulation window. The doctor said it' s the best time. Burrel is watching. I have no choice.

The doctor. His grandfather, Burrel Davis. The puppet masters pulling his strings.

Branson was terrified of his family's curse. A fatal genetic disorder that had claimed his mother and was slowly killing his grandfather. He had sworn he would never risk passing it on.

"I will never have a child, Alyssa," he had told her on their wedding night, his eyes dark with a pain she had longed to heal. "I can't. I won't. You are all I need."

And for three years, he had kept that promise. He was meticulous, almost obsessive, about contraception. He loved her with a desperate, possessive intensity that had once made her feel like the center of the universe.

Then his grandfather, Burrel, the ruthless patriarch of the Davis dynasty, had delivered his ultimatum from his deathbed. He needed an heir to secure the family's legacy. An heir, or Branson would lose everything.

Trapped between his promise to her and his grandfather's tyranny, Branson had found a loophole. A surrogate.

He chose Chandler Lyons, an intern at Davis Corp. She was young, fresh-faced, with wide, innocent eyes that concealed a sharp ambition. She was supposed to be a simple vessel.

The first time, Burrel had made sure of it. He' d had Branson' s drink drugged at a family dinner, then had Chandler led to his room. Branson had been horrified, disgusted with himself, begging for Alyssa' s forgiveness.

He had knelt before her, his handsome face wrecked with guilt. "He forced me, Alyssa. I didn't want to. It meant nothing."

And she, lost in her love for him, had forgiven him.

The second time was different. And this, the third time, was a new level of hell.

She remembered seeing Chandler for the first time, a few months ago. The intern had stood in their living room, looking small and nervous in her simple dress. She had looked at Alyssa with what seemed like awe and apology.

"Mrs. Davis," she had whispered, her voice trembling. "I... I'm so sorry."

Branson had been cold, dismissive. "Just do what you're paid to do and nothing more," he'd snapped at Chandler, barely looking at her.

Chandler had flinched, her eyes filling with tears. It was a convincing performance.

Now, upstairs, the performance was over. The sounds were raw, real. Burrel was forcing this, turning their marriage bed into a stage for his perverse endgame. He wanted to ensure impregnation, and he wanted Alyssa to witness it, to accept her role as the barren wife.

She was supposed to go up there, stand in the room, and watch.

She covered her ears with her hands, pressing hard, trying to block out the noise. But it was useless. The sounds seeped through her fingers, through the walls, filling her head.

Chandler' s moans, breathless and loud. Branson' s guttural responses. The frantic, desperate rhythm of the headboard banging against the wall.

It was a violation. An assault on her senses, on her soul.

She pictured Chandler afterward, her body flushed, her hair damp with sweat. She pictured Branson, waking from this haze of duty and lust, filled with his customary regret. He would come to her, wrap his strong arms around her, and tell her how much he loved her, how she was the only one who mattered. He would punish himself, punch a wall, his knuckles bleeding as a testament to his "pain."

And she, like a fool, would choose to believe him. She would let him hold her, let his apologies soothe the raw edges of her heart.

Not again.

The memory of the second betrayal was still fresh. She had been at the hospital for her first egg retrieval procedure, a secret she kept from everyone. A desperate, hopeful plan for a future that was now turning to ash.

Branson had been with her. He held her hand as the doctor explained the procedure.

"I'll be right here when you wake up," he had promised, his voice a low, comforting rumble. "I'm not going anywhere."