He Forced Eight Abortions Then Had His Mistress’s Baby

I stood frozen in the doorway of our Manhattan penthouse, my fingers gripping the frame so tightly my knuckles turned white. The scene before me was surreal—Marcus, my husband of five years, tenderly cradling a newborn baby in his arms while Amber Chen, his mistress, looked on with exhausted satisfaction from our guest bed.

The same hands that had once held mine with promises of forever were now gently stroking the cheek of another woman's child. His child. The irony was knife-sharp—this was the same man who had forced me through eight abortions, each one taking a piece of my soul, each one justified with his insistence that children would interfere with our ambitious lifestyle.

"Look at him, he has my eyes," Marcus whispered, his voice carrying a tenderness I hadn't heard in years. The baby made a soft cooing sound, and Marcus's face lit up with a smile that twisted in my chest like barbed wire.

I must have made a sound because Marcus finally looked up, his expression changing from adoration to cold indifference in an instant. There was no shame, no guilt—just annoyance at my presence interrupting his perfect moment.

"Victoria," he said, his tone clipped. "Don't just stand there. Amber needs fresh water and some of those pain relievers the doctor prescribed."

I didn't move. Couldn't move. The audacity of his command rooted me to the spot.

"Did you hear me?" Marcus's voice hardened, the familiar edge of command returning. "Amber needs help with the baby. You have nothing better to do anyway since you gave up your career."

The words sliced through me. I had graduated top of my class from Harvard Business School. I had been courted by Wall Street's elite. And I had walked away from it all because Marcus had convinced me that supporting his dreams was more important. That we were a team.

"Marcus, I—" My voice faltered.

"Look, Victoria," he cut me off, handing the baby to Amber with practiced care. "You're going to be Amber's postpartum nanny for a while. She needs someone experienced, and you've always been good at taking care of people."

The casual cruelty of his words stole my breath. Good at taking care of people. Yes, I had been—especially him. I had nursed his ego, his ambitions, his company from a struggling startup to a publicly traded corporation. And this was my reward.

I retreated from the doorway without another word, my mind spinning with a strange, detached clarity. In our master bedroom, I sat on the edge of our California king bed, staring at the Manhattan skyline through floor-to-ceiling windows that had once made me feel on top of the world. Now they only emphasized how trapped I was in this glass tower of his making.

Hours passed. The penthouse grew quiet as night fell. I moved through the hallways like a ghost, pausing when I heard Marcus's voice from the guest room. The door was ajar, and through the crack, I could see him sitting on the edge of Amber's bed, holding her hand.

"I promise you'll never want for anything," he was saying, his voice a low, intimate murmur. "We'll build a beautiful life together, you and me and our son. The kind of family I've always wanted."

The kind of family I've always wanted.

Each word was a hammer blow to my chest. Those were the exact words he had whispered to me on our wedding night. The same promise he had shattered eight times over.

I moved silently to his study, my mind oddly calm despite the storm raging in my heart. From my purse, I withdrew the divorce papers my lawyer had prepared weeks ago—papers I'd been too afraid to present. With steady hands, I placed them squarely in the center of his mahogany desk, where he couldn't possibly miss them.

I was halfway to the bedroom when I heard his footsteps. Then his laugh—cruel and dismissive—echoed through the penthouse.

"Victoria!" he called out, his voice dripping with amusement. "You can't be serious with this."

I turned to face him. He stood in the hallway, the divorce papers dangling from his fingers, his mouth curved in a mocking smile.

"Where exactly do you think you'll go?" he asked, tearing the papers in half with deliberate slowness. "Who do you think you are without me?"

Before I could respond, he pulled out his phone, tapped a few times, and held the screen up so I could see it. "I've just frozen all your accounts and credit cards. Consider it a reminder of reality."

His smile widened as he saw the shock on my face. "You'll come to your senses by morning. You always do."

As he walked away, leaving the torn papers scattered on the floor, I realized with cold clarity that Marcus had never seen me—the real me. He had no idea who I truly was or what I was capable of.

And that would be his downfall.