Everyone in high society believed I was the luckiest man alive—married to a woman of boundless wealth and power, who loved me with a fierce, almost terrifying devotion.

Until the morning after she confirmed her pregnancy, when I overheard her hushed conversation with her executive assistant outside her study. "Now that you're expecting, ma'am, what should we do about Trevor and the boy?" the assistant asked in a tense whisper. "The child is already three.

If Mr. Mercer ever finds out..." Victoria’s response was cold and razorsharp. "He can never know.

Tell Trevor to keep his mouth shut, or I'll ruin whatever is left of him." The boy? Three years old?

Before the words could fully register in my mind, the phone in my pocket vibrated. It was an unknown number.

Attached was a photo: Victoria, the formidable CEO of Prescott Global, lifting a toddler high into the morning sun.

Her eyes were softened with a tender, unconditional warmth I had never seen on her face before.

I stumbled back into our bedroom, my hands shaking so violently I could barely unlock the screen.

I dialed my older sister, Rachel, who worked in clandestine state intelligence overseas. "Rachel," I whispered, my voice breaking. "I need you to stage an accident. A fatal one.

I need to disappear. I’m leaving Victoria." 1 "Adrian? What happened?" Rachel's voice turned instantly alert across the encrypted line. "Victoria worships the ground you walk on.

What did she do?" I opened my mouth, but my throat tightened around a hot, suffocating lump. She wasn't wrong to ask.

Everyone in our world knew how relentlessly Victoria Prescott had chased me ten years ago.

She was the sole heiress to a multibilliondollar empire; I was an ordinary graphic designer, an orphan who had survived on whatever scraps my sister and I could scrape together.

Back then, society gossiped that I was merely an amusing novelty to her—a stray puppy she would tire of once the novelty wore off. For a long time, I believed them.

Yet she pursued me for five relentless years. When I finally surrendered and said yes, she threw a lavish, highprofile wedding that made national headlines.

People whispered that her urgency was nothing more than the desperate satisfaction of an obsession finally conquered. They placed bets on how quickly she would discard me.

Instead, she spent the next five years proving them wrong. She guarded me like a precious secret.

In the cutthroat boardrooms of Chicago and Manhattan, Victoria was known as an untouchable shark who possessed only a single vulnerability: her husband, Adrian Mercer.

I couldn't blame my sister for being shocked. Even I was struggling to comprehend the wreckage beneath my feet. "Adrian?" Rachel called softly, sensing the heavy silence.

She didn't press. "Tomorrow night. I’ll have a private transport cleared to extract you. Leave the rest to me." The line went dead.

I sat frozen on the edge of the mattress, the receiver still pressed to my ear. A second later, another text lit up my screen from the same unknown number.

Did you see the picture, Adrian? Still patting yourself on the back because she's pregnant with your kid? Our son is already three years old.

What makes you think your baby stands a chance? The message stripped away the last shred of denial. Victoria had cheated on me.

We had been married for five years, and she had a threeyearold son with Trevor Hayes. My knees gave out, and I crumpled onto the hardwood floor.

My mind raced backward through time, landing on a sixmonth stretch three years ago.

We had been married just over a year when she claimed she had to oversee an extensive acquisition in Western Europe. She was gone for half a year.

She hadn't been closing a corporate merger. She had been hiding a swelling belly. She had been giving birth to another man's child. The bedroom door clicked open.

Victoria walked in, freezing when she saw me slumped against the baseboard. "Adrian! What are you doing on the floor?

It's freezing down there—are you hurt?" She dropped her designer purse and rushed to my side, her stunning hazel eyes flooded with concern.

My reflection was perfectly centered in her gaze, just as it had been every single day for the past five years.

I slipped my phone into my pocket, forcing my trembling lips into a faint smile. "I just felt lightheaded," I murmured. "I think the news of becoming a father finally hit me.

My legs just went out from under me." Victoria breathed a sigh of relief.

She slid her arms under mine, gently lifting me onto the bed before brushing the hair from my forehead. "You little troublemaker," she scolded gently, resting a hand against her flat stomach. "Tormenting your father before you're even born.

Just wait until you're out here—see how mommy handles you." She turned back to me, her expression softening. "By the way, do you want a boy or a girl? I really hope it's a girl.

I want to raise her like a little princess." On any other day, the remark would have sounded sweet.

Today, it felt like an icy blade sliding between my ribs. "Why a girl?" I asked quietly, watching her closely. "Doesn't the Prescott family always want a son to inherit the firm?" Victoria blinked, caught off guard for a fraction of a second.

Then she took my hand, rubbing her thumb across my knuckles. "Boy or girl, it doesn't matter.

As long as it's ours, I'll love them with everything I have." I looked down, unable to stomach the tenderness in her eyes. It made bile rise in the back of my throat.

She didn't notice my withdrawal. Her gaze drifted toward her belly, completely lost in thought. "I booked our first prenatal ultrasound for tomorrow morning.

We've waited so long for this baby.

I want to make sure everything is perfect." If I hadn't overheard her in the hallway, if I hadn't seen Trevor's messages, I would have believed her without a shadow of a doubt.

Now, a scream clawed at my throat: Did you really wait for this child? Or do you only want a daughter because you already gave your lover a son?

I swallowed the burning ache in my chest and nodded weakly. "Let's go to sleep, Victoria.

I'm exhausted." 2 The next morning, while Victoria and I were getting dressed for the clinic, my phone buzzed on the dresser. Who do you think matters more to her?

Your unborn baby, or mine? Before I could lock the screen, Victoria’s phone rang.

She glanced at the caller ID, held up a quick apologetic finger, and stepped out onto the balcony to answer.

A few minutes later, she walked back into the bedroom, her face tight with manufactured regret as she took my hands. "Adrian, an emergency just blew up at the office.

I have to head in immediately." "What about the appointment?" "Don't worry," she rushed out, already grabbing her coat from the armchair. "I'll handle the crisis and meet you straight at the clinic.

The doctor is a private specialist I personally arranged. The driver will take you there." She didn't even wait for my answer.

She threw the strap of her bag over her shoulder and headed for the foyer. I closed my eyes, willing the tears not to fall.

When I opened them, her hand was on the front door handle.

I took a deep, shuddering breath, offering her one final, desperate lifeline. "Victoria," I called out, my voice thin. "Do you really have to go right now?

Can't you stay with me?" She paused. A flicker of hesitation crossed her face, but it dissolved into a practiced, patronizing smile. "Be good, Adrian.

I'll get through this as fast as I can and come right to you. Promise." The heavy mahogany door clicked shut.

In the sudden stillness of the penthouse, the tears finally broke, spilling hot and fast down my cheeks.

Two hours later, the chauffeur dropped me off at the private medical pavilion.

Victoria joined me just in time, slipping her arm through mine as we were escorted into the examination room. We went through the routine scans and bloodwork.

The moment the technician wiped the gel from her abdomen, Victoria checked her watch, offered a hurried excuse about a board meeting, and vanished out the door.

I was left sitting alone on the long leather bench in the hallway, staring down at the thermal ultrasound printout in my lap.

In the center of the grainy, blackandwhite image was a tiny, peanutsized smudge. The doctor had pointed to it with a smile, telling me it was my child.

My phone chimed in my pocket. See? All I have to do is tell her our son is crying for his mommy, and she drops everything to run to us.

I tapped the screen to open the attached image. A little boy sat in a bright blue highchair, his cheeks flushed with laughter.

Leaning over him with a spoon was Victoria, her face glowing with an easy, radiant warmth as she fed him breakfast. It was a domestic scene I had daydreamed about for five years.

I just never imagined I would see it like this. I could have blocked the number.

But I stared at the screen, letting the cruelty burn into my memory, forcing myself to remember the hollow lie my entire marriage had been.

I wiped my wet face, folded the ultrasound paper, and put it away.

I called the driver and told him I wanted to walk around the nearby shopping district alone, instructing him to head home.

Then I sat back down on the cold bench, numbly waiting for whatever blow was coming next. Trevor didn't keep me waiting. Twenty minutes later, a video file arrived.

Enjoy the show, Adrian. In an hour, we're taking her to an outpatient surgery center. That little dream baby of yours?

It's just an inconvenient bastard she can't wait to scrape out. The video was nearly an hour long. On the screen, Victoria was wild, reckless, and uninhibited.

She moved with a desperate, animalistic intensity, surrounding herself with lingerie and toys scattered across the sheets. I had never seen this woman before.

In our five years of marriage, Victoria had always been gentle, almost reverent in bed—softspoken, reserved, treating me like fragile porcelain. She wasn't naturally modest.

She had simply never felt that kind of fire for me.

I watched the screen in a trance of selfinflicted agony, unable to look away from the stranger wearing my wife's face. "Sir?" a soft voice interrupted. "Sir, are you all right?

Do you need a doctor?" 3 I looked up to find a nurse hovering over me, her eyes filled with deep concern.

Only then did I realize that my entire body was trembling, and that silent, uncontrollable sobs were wracking my chest. The phone shook in my whiteknuckled grip.

And the most humiliating part of it all was the realization that I still loved her.

A spouse isn't a broken appliance you throw in the trash; she isn't an acquaintance you simply block after an argument. She was the woman I had shared a bed with for five years.

Loving her had become an involuntary reflex, woven into my nervous system.

Everyone thought she was the one who loved me to death, but I had poured my entire soul into her in return.

Five years of quiet breakfasts, latenight talks, holding each other through the winter. How could five years of life be erased in a single morning?

I looked down at the peanutsized smudge on the ultrasound paper tucked in my pocket. I swallowed my grief, wiped my face clean, and dialed her number.

I wanted to give her one last chance to choose me. "Victoria," I said when the line connected. "Are you done with your meeting? I'm still at the clinic.

Can you come pick me up?" Her voice came through ragged and breathless, tight with suppressed exertion. "Adrian... I'm still tied up with clients.

Have the driver take you home..." A low, muffled gasp slipped past her lips, followed by the rustle of sheets and a sudden disconnect. The line went dead with a hollow tone.

I sat in the corridor for a long time before looking up at the nurse. "I'm fine," I said quietly, my voice flat. "Thank you.

I'm leaving now." It was dark by the time I walked into our penthouse.

The moment the foyer lights flickered on, Victoria stepped out from the living room to greet me. "The driver said you didn't go home after the clinic.

I thought you went shopping, but you didn't buy anything..." She stopped midsentence, her eyes locking onto my bloodshot, swollen eyes. "Adrian? Have you been crying? What's wrong?

Talk to me." I studied her features. She was breathtakingly beautiful, her face perfectly composed, her eyes reflecting only me.

The exact same face that had moaned in ecstasy on my phone screen just hours ago. I looked away, avoiding her touch. "Nothing.

I guess seeing the ultrasound today just made me emotional." I paused, taking a slow breath. "Victoria, I really miss Rachel. I want to go visit her.

She said she could send a private flight for me tomorrow evening." Victoria’s shoulders visibly dropped, relief washing over her face.

She took my hand and led me toward the sofa. "I read about this," she said with a tender chuckle. "Hormonal empathy in expecting fathers.

It's supposed to be the mother crying, but look at my sentimental boy. You're going to be a father and you still run to your big sister." She kissed my cheek. "Go visit Rachel.

You two haven't seen each other in ages. Once I wrap up my deals this week, I'll fly out and join you.

We'll take a proper vacation together." Listening to her smooth, caring voice, my chest turned completely cold. You read about it? Or do you already have three years of experience?

And an expecting mother? After this afternoon, are you even pregnant anymore? I didn't have the energy to confront her.

A dull, throbbing headache pounded behind my eyes. "I'm tired, Victoria. I want to sleep." I fell into a heavy, dreamless sleep and didn't wake until noon.

Surprisingly, Victoria was still in the penthouse.

When she heard me stir, she came over and wrapped her arms around my waist from behind. "People say pregnant women sleep a lot, but you're outdoing me.

Come on, sleepyhead, get up and eat something. We have the charity gala this afternoon." I calculated the timeline.

Rachel’s transport wouldn't arrive at the airfield until late tonight. Attending the gala would keep Victoria from suspecting anything. I nodded and got out of bed.

When we stepped into the grand ballroom of the Drake Hotel, we instantly became the center of attention. "Look at them," an heiress whispered nearby. "Five years of marriage, and Victoria Prescott still looks at him like he's the only man in the room." "She brings him to every single event," another agreed. "She's terrified someone might steal him away." Victoria accepted the compliments with a gracious, radiant smile, clearly enjoying the public spectacle of our devotion.

Then, an oily, mocking voice sliced through the chatter. "Mr.

Mercer, isn't it exhausting clinging to your wife's coattails everywhere she goes?" Trevor Hayes stepped through the crowd, an insolent smirk on his face. "Or are you just terrified that if you let her out of your sight for five minutes, another man might take her from you?" 4 The surrounding conversations died instantly.

Everyone in our circle remembered that Trevor had once pursued Victoria with unhinged persistence—until Victoria retaliated by cutting off his family’s credit lines and bankrupting their firm. "What is he doing here?" someone muttered. "Is he insane?" "He ruined his family chasing her, and now he has the nerve to show up?

Everyone knows Victoria despises sidepieces." "Look at Mrs. Prescott's face. He's a dead man." I ignored the whispers. I ignored Victoria's darkening expression.

Calmly, I picked up a glass of Cabernet from a passing waiter's tray. "Mr.

Hayes seems remarkably invested in my marriage," I said, my tone mild. "If I didn't know better, I’d think you had some kind of personal stake in my wife." Victoria's entire body stiffened.

She turned toward Trevor with a look of pure, murderous rage. Trevor’s smugness cracked, a flash of panic darting across his eyes. "Just a joke, Mercer. Don't be so sensitive.

We're all men here—" Before he could finish, I hurled the red wine straight into his face.

The dark liquid splattered across his forehead, dripping off his eyelashes and soaking the front of his tailored ivory suit. "Since you're so thirsty for attention," I said coldly, "consider that a drink on me." Trevor stood drenched and humiliated, the dark red stains ruining his expensive facade while I stood pristine before him.

His fists clenched, his gaze venomous. "Is this how the great Mr. Mercer behaves? The proud trophy husband of Prescott Global throwing tantrums?

Just because I made a comment, you humiliate me in public?" Before I could speak, Victoria stepped forward, grabbing my arm and pulling me entirely behind her. "My husband can do whatever he damn well pleases," Victoria spat, her voice cutting through the ballroom like broken glass. "Prescott power and Prescott money back every choice he makes.

If anyone has a problem with it, take it up with me." She pinned Trevor under an icy glare. "And who the hell are you to question him?

Get out of my sight before I have security throw you onto the pavement." Trevor flinched, stunned by her public brutality. "Leave," Victoria ordered, turning her back on him.

Trevor shot me one last murderous look before slinking out of the ballroom. He was a fool.

Trying to challenge me in front of high society was pointless—Victoria had an image to maintain, and on paper, I was her prized possession.

Victoria turned to me, her eyes brimming with anxious concern. "Adrian, are you—" Her phone vibrated in her clutch.

She excused herself to step away, and the moment she turned the corner, my own phone lit up. You think you won that round? Let's see who she chooses when the doors close.

I lowered the phone just as Victoria hurried back to my side. "Adrian, an emergency international conference call just came in. I need to take it in the car downstairs.

It'll only take ten minutes." My heart went completely still. I looked at her and smiled gently. "Go ahead. Take your time." She kissed my cheek and hurried toward the elevators.

A second later, Trevor's next message arrived. Just four words: Parking garage. Level B2.

Simultaneously, my phone lit up with an incoming call from Rachel. "Adrian," she said calmly. "The jet just touched down at the private hangar.

It's time to move." "I'm on my way," I said. I hung up, looked at Trevor's text, and pressed the button for the parking garage. I was leaving, of course.

But not before delivering my parting gift.