At my twenty-fourth birthday banquet, my fiancé's sponsored girl had a miscarriage—because she drank the fruit wine I'd given her.
That was the day I learned the filthy truth: they'd slept together.
I insisted on breaking off the engagement. Damian Ashford dropped to his knees right in front of me, with both sets of parents watching, and begged me to forgive him.
Under the weight of their persuasion—and the five-billion-dollar partnership between our families—I caved.
Three days after the wedding, he was in a car accident. It damaged him below the waist.
To protect his dignity, I told the world I was childfree by choice. That I simply didn't want children.
Four years later, on a foreign variety show, I saw my husband—Damian Ashford—playing games with a little boy.
The investigation that followed ripped everything wide open. Four years ago, Damian had set up a home overseas with Edna Fox. They had a son together. And Edna was pregnant again.
I stormed into his office to confront him—but stopped short when I heard him talking to someone inside.
"You faked a car accident and didn't touch her for four years, all to punish her for one glass of wine she gave Edna? You're something else." That was David Walker's voice.
Damian was lounging in his executive chair, a cold smirk curling his lips.
"She made Edna miscarry. This is her lesson."
"Once Edna's son is older, I might bring him back and let her play mother. She's got the Ashford name and a free son—she should be grateful."
My entire body went numb, as though I'd been plunged into a vat of ice. Four years of consulting every doctor and praying at every temple. Four years of swallowing my humiliation, crawling on top of him, trying to coax his body to respond. All of it—punishment. For one glass of wine.
Fine. Then this arranged marriage could go straight to hell.
——
The conversation inside continued.
"Damian, your wife's been genuinely good to you. A pampered heiress, and she spent years tracking down specialists, even knelt her way up a mountain to pray for your recovery."
David paused, his tone careful. "Don't you think this is a little cruel? Making her live like a widow her whole life, growing old with no children? It's a bit..."
A derisive scoff cut him off.
"That's the price she pays for hurting Edna."
"So what if she's some rich man's daughter? Does that give her the right to bully someone with no one to turn to? I'm letting her taste what it feels like to suffer—so she never thinks she can push people around again."
David sighed.
"Aren't you worried she'll find out and tear the whole marriage apart?"
Damian's gaze sharpened instantly. "David. You didn't go soft and tell her, did you?"
David shook his head and stared down at his tea, saying nothing.
Damian's voice turned glacial.
"Don't ruin this for me. I spent six months planning every detail."
"I promised Edna I'd never touch that woman again. Promised her children would be my only heirs. I won't let Edna down."
Every word dripped with warning—as if the only catastrophe he could imagine was his precious Edna being disappointed.
My mind dragged me back to those humiliating nights. How I'd pressed myself against him, mimicking techniques I'd found in videos, desperate to arouse him.
How he'd turned red-faced and rigid, clenching every muscle to suppress his body's response.
I'd thought he was flushed with shame and frustration. He was gritting his teeth to stay faithful to his mistress.
I stood outside that door, listening, and every word drove through my chest like a shard of ice.
It wasn't just betrayal. It was cruelty—deliberate, calculated, and vicious.
Four years of high-society whispers. Four years of swallowed pride. I'd endured all of it with my jaw locked shut.
My knees still bore the scars from kneeling at temple steps, praying for his recovery. On rainy days, they ached.
I remembered draping a blessed sachet around his neck with trembling, reverent hands.
And what had he been doing?
Rolling between the sheets with his sponsored girl, lost in ecstasy—laughing at how stupid I was. How pitiful.
