“Anna is easy to please. Just buy her something she likes, and she’s happy.”
My face hardened as I asked, word by word, “What exactly are you trying to say?”
The man I had shared my bed with suddenly felt like a stranger.
It was as if, after seven years, I was meeting him for the first time.
“My point is—you’ll always be my wife. She’ll just be my girlfriend.
Since you can’t have children, once she gives birth, I’ll let the child call you Mom.”
I stared at David in utter disbelief.
Had I fallen into some nightmare?
I was his wife, Anna was his girlfriend—and he thought two women sharing a husband was acceptable?
If this ever went public, it would cause a storm of outrage.
Three years ago, after a checkup, the doctor told me I had fertility issues—so severe that I might never conceive.
My first thought back then was divorce.
I didn’t want to trap David in a childless marriage.
But he was the one who stopped me.
That day, leaving the hospital, he told me tenderly,
“As long as we try, God won’t abandon us.”
I asked, “And if I really can’t have children?”
He answered, “As long as we’re together, that’s enough. Children can’t be forced. You’re more important than anything.”
I believed him. I truly did.
And because I believed him, all this disaster followed.
Cheating. A mistress. A plan to let her give birth for him.
And now, he wanted me to coexist with her—
to raise her child as my own?
Every word he said suffocated me.
I refused firmly. “Forget it. I will never agree to this.”
“Why not? Anna already agreed. Why can’t you?”
“Because I can say no. That’s my right.”
“Then what would make you agree?” David’s voice grew louder, anxious.
To him, this was the perfect solution.
But to me, it was revolting.
“Don’t worry. I’ll never agree.”
“Claire!!”
David was about to explode when Anna knocked on the door.
Smiling sweetly, she said, “David, let me handle this. After all, we’re both women—we’ll talk better.”
“Fine. I’ll wait outside.”
As David left, he closed the door.
Anna locked it behind him and turned to me with a smirk.
“Claire, why don’t you tell me what you really think?”
I frowned. “What are you trying to do?”
Instinct told me she meant harm.
She came closer, pressing her fingers against one of my bruises—at first lightly, then suddenly harder.
She jabbed at the wound and sneered, “What pride do you have left?”
“You’re older, not as gentle as me, infertile—and you still have the face to refuse?”
“Be smart, accept it, and your life will be much easier.”
I clenched my teeth against the pain, still not understanding what game she was playing.
But share a husband with her?
Absolutely not.
