A Legacy of His Lover's Lie

The day my husband, Wyatt Clarke, decided to grant his terminally ill first love, Sloane Adler, her "dying wish"—to have a child with her—I slapped a divorce agreement on the table and walked out without a second glance.

Before I left, I posted a comment under a photo on his social media of them in an intimate embrace at a charity gala. In the picture, his hand was wrapped possessively around her waist.

"Let's get a divorce. I wish you a lifetime of happiness together."

A minute later, his call came through. "How did I end up with someone as cold-hearted as you, Aveline Monroe? Are you really going to let a dying woman pass with regrets?"

I scoffed. "You're not my husband anymore. What does it have to do with me?"

A palpable sense of panic radiated from the other end of the line.

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1

With a single stroke of my pen on the divorce papers, it was over. I dragged a hand over my face, the storm in my mind finally beginning to calm. I was done with Wyatt Clarke—the man I had once loved with all my soul and now despised with every fiber of my being.

As the ink dried, the suffocating weight of pain and resentment seemed to lift.

But the thought of Wyatt brought a sharp stab of irony. What was I getting sentimental about? Right now, he was probably cooing with his darling Sloane Adler, planning for the child that was to be the "precious symbol of their love."

Not that he ever cared about me. Six years, and you'd think I'd be used to it. I let out a bitter, self-mocking laugh.

But something in me just couldn't let it go. Why should he, the one who betrayed our marriage, get to walk away with a clear conscience?

The thought sparked a rebellious impulse. So, I picked up my phone, opened his profile, and left a comment under his post with the intimate photo of him and Sloane.

"Let's get a divorce. Wishing you and Sloane a lifetime of happiness. No need to hide your baby plans anymore."

After six years of marriage, Wyatt’s and my social circles were hopelessly entangled. In the photo he posted, Sloane's face was cleverly hidden by the angle, leading many to believe the woman in his arms was me. The comments section blew up with friends teasing us about our "public display of affection."

Wyatt never corrected them. He let me be the perfect shield for his affair with Sloane, and the thought made my stomach churn. So, I decided to drop a truth bomb right in the middle of that chorus of "blessings" and show everyone the kind of man he really was.

Less than a minute later, his call came in. "What the hell did you post? I already explained everything. What are people going to think of me?"

"Sloane doesn't have much time left. Can't you just grant her this one wish?"

Seeing my silence, his tone grew harsher. "How did I end up married to someone so cold-hearted, Aveline Monroe? Can you really bear to let her die with regrets, without leaving a part of herself behind in this world?"

His words sent a wave of nausea through me. My own husband wanted to have a child with another woman and actually expected me to nod and applaud.

And Sloane’s so-called wish was to "leave a part of herself behind"? Who did he think he was kidding? In that moment, the last flicker of love I held for him was extinguished.

"You're not my husband anymore. What does it have to do with me? Even if you and Sloane have ten children, it has nothing to do with me," I said with a cold laugh. "Oh, I get it. You expect me to raise your bastard child, don't you? I've never met a man as shameless as you, Wyatt!"

I fought the urge to hang up; every second longer on the phone with him was excruciating.

As you can imagine, the reason for my divorce was laughably absurd. My husband wanted to ensure his terminally ill first love died without regrets. He wanted to help her leave a piece of herself behind in this world—his child, a testament to her existence.

A week ago, Wyatt had suddenly told me Sloane was back.

The moment I heard her name, my grip instinctively tightened on my phone. I pretended to be calm, asking why she had returned. I knew better than anyone what Sloane’s name meant to him.

Wyatt pursed his lips, his eyes reddening as he explained, "She has a very rare autoimmune disease. It's in the late stages, so she wants to spend her final days in Chicago."