Eight months pregnant, I found the will tucked away in my husband’s study safe. It was all there: every share of stock, every piece of real estate, plus ten private jets and five private islands. They were all bequeathed, free and clear upon his death, to Holly Summers, the impoverished student he’d been quietly sponsoring. Rhys and I had a prenuptial agreement, of course. When we married, there was no dowry, no exchange of gifts, not even a simple ceremony. "You’re an intellectual, Liz," Rhys had said, his expression placid. "The transactional nonsense of a dowry is beneath us." Seven years of marriage, and my name was still a ghost on the deed of the house. "Who gave you permission to touch my things?" Rhys Covington’s voice was arctic, his brow furrowed with genuine, blazing anger. I didn't cry or scream. I simply told him the truth, my voice flat. "The password was Holly Summers’s birthday." He snatched the documents from my hand and, without a word, changed the combination. "It’s just a password. Can you stop being dramatic?" I told him I wanted a divorce, calmly, the words barely a whisper. He dismissed it instantly. He locked the safe, told me to leave the study, and warned me never to touch his things again. I nodded. As soon as I closed the door behind me, I reached for my phone and booked an appointment for a termination. His things? I wouldn’t touch them. The baby in my belly? I wouldn’t keep it. 1 "Mrs. Covington, are you absolutely sure about this surgery? You’re too far along. It could cause significant damage to your body." The doctor’s gentle, cautionary voice sliced through me, causing a momentary, searing pain. I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek, choking back the rising tide of emotion. "I’m sure," I confirmed. "Book the procedure for one week from now." The confirmation text flashed on my screen. I pressed a hand to my throbbing lower abdomen and drove to my lawyer’s firm. David Sinclair, my attorney, slid a warm glass of water across the desk. "Eliza, you don’t have to walk away with nothing," he advised softly. "Under matrimonial law, you’re entitled to at least half of the assets accumulated during the marriage." The steam from the water misted my eyes, making the room blur. Rhys had placed all his pre-marital assets into a trust, and after we married, every dollar of his post-nuptial income was held by proxies. The money never technically passed through his hands. He’d told me this on our wedding day. He would never, ever, let a marriage certificate be the mechanism by which he split his hard-earned empire in two. At the time, I convinced myself he was merely reacting to his father’s pressure to marry. I even felt sorry for the years of struggle he’d endured. I’d been the ‘understanding’ wife, agreeing to everything, even signing a document willingly waiving any future claim. It took seeing the will to understand the truth. He hadn’t been reluctant to give away his wealth. He’d simply been strategizing how to legally deliver it to her. He wasn’t unwilling to marry; he just hadn’t been waiting for me. I took a slow sip of water. My voice was a raw, strained whisper. "It won’t be necessary, David. I don't want the assets. I just want out." As he drafted the papers, my entire body began to shake uncontrollably. It wasn't heartbreak—it was fury. Seven years of marriage, and he had so masterfully deceived me, turning me into a willing fool. He was willing to give Holly Summers his entire fortune. Yet, the most valuable gift I’d ever received from him was a cheap, second-hand wristwatch, bought for less than fifty dollars. Even when I fell during the pregnancy and nearly lost the baby—bleeding and terrified—he had been with Holly, celebrating her birthday at Disneyland. The most twisted irony of all? He’d made me design their wedding gown. Two months prior, Rhys had brought home the measurements. I was still severely weak from the ordeal of saving the baby, but he forced me to work. "A friend is getting married," he’d said dismissively. "Design the bridal wear to the highest standard." The groom’s measurements were identical to his. And embroidered into the lace hem of the bride’s dress were the initials, 'H.S.' David held out the divorce agreement, making one last attempt. "Eliza, the money you earned yourself, at least don’t surrender that…" I managed a bitter smile. Rhys had never given me a cent. Every household expense, every bill, had been paid for with my own freelance design fees. Perhaps that was my utility to him: cheap, effective, and compliant. He could keep his money and yet command my unquestioning devotion to his home and life. Signing the papers later that evening, my lower abdomen seized with a painful, violent cramp. The baby, fully formed now, was thrashing—a wild protest or a desperate plea for comfort, I couldn't tell. Tears streamed down my face, uncontrolled. I’m sorry, my baby. Mama couldn't protect you. 2 The next day, with David’s help, I rented a small apartment. I didn't care about the layout, the price, or the neighborhood—only that I could move in immediately. Returning to the cold, opulent house felt like stepping back into a tomb. The eight-month weight of the baby made every step a labor, but I pushed through the pain and cooked a full dinner. As I carefully arranged the plates, the realization hit me: every single dish was Rhys’s favorite. Seven years of prioritizing his preferences had turned my habits into instinct; I’d forgotten my own. I just wanted a clean break, a peaceful ending to this disastrous marriage. I kept the food warm, reheating it eight times, until Rhys finally stumbled through the front door at three in the morning. The cloying scent of gardenia—Holly's favorite perfume—assaulted me. A fresh hickey, the pink blooming over older, faded bruises, was stark against his neck. He was drunk, but when his eyes landed on the beautifully plated, still-steaming dinner, he frowned in distaste. "What is this?" he sneered. "Did you think I would suddenly feel sorry for you?" He brushed past me, heading for the stairs, not even granting me a glance. Only as he walked by did I notice it: the wedding band I had personally designed was gone. Not even a pale mark remained on his finger. "Rhys," I said. My voice was husky, but my tone was eerily calm. "The divorce papers are in your study. Sign them if you don't have any issues." He paused halfway up the stairs. He turned back, his gaze heavy with cold sarcasm. "Eliza Quinn," he said. "You want to divorce me over a will? I’m not dead yet." He let out a short, dismissive laugh, ignoring my advanced state of pregnancy, and lit a cigarette. "Don’t forget how you got here. Holly has a chronic condition. The will was a gesture, a way to assure her of her safety. It’s symbolic." He remembered Holly’s chronic condition. He couldn't see my swollen feet or the enormous, unwieldy belly that kept me from seeing them. The disparity was a chasm. Love and indifference, clearly defined. But he had forgotten something else. Ten years ago, his rivalrous step-brother had him kidnapped. I defied my own family and used every resource I had to track him down. In the decisive moment, I took a knife intended for him. In the hospital, he held me and wept, making a solemn vow. "I will take over Covington Industries, Eliza. And I will give you the life you deserve." "If I ever betray you, let God strike me down." He had secured the empire. But the good life? That went to someone else. I was left with a cut-rate wedding, a rented dress, and an icy prenuptial agreement. I laughed, though my eyes stung with unshed tears. "So, you remember. You still owe me a life, then?" Rhys’s face turned frighteningly cold. After a long silence, he scoffed, the sound barely audible. "You’re still holding onto that? You really think I owe you?" "How much? A million? Will a million dollars be enough to wipe the slate clean?" I didn't know whether to scream or laugh. My life, my sacrifice, was worth a mere million dollars. Any remaining flicker of hope shriveled up and died. I fought to control the tremor in my voice. "It won't be necessary, Rhys. I just want a peaceful separation." I turned to leave. Behind me, his enraged roar erupted. "Fine! Have your dignity, Eliza! But don’t come crying back to me when you realize what you’ve lost!" Crying? I had already cried every tear I had for him over the last seven years. 3 Before I could fall asleep, I heard the sound of Rhys’s car tires peeling out of the driveway. He was gone. The torn-up divorce agreement lay in the wastebasket in the study. Why won't he let go? I wondered. If he doesn’t love me, why cling to the marriage? My phone buzzed. A text from Holly Summers. A photo of Rhys holding her. Scrolling up, I found a history of her similar texts: snapshots of her and Rhys, intimate moments—him blowing out her hair, him cooking for her, him patiently applying an infantile decal to the passenger side of his luxury car. She had been treating me like a diary, unloading all the 'little joys' she shared with my husband. A new text popped up. A picture of Rhys asleep, his arm draped around her. He was wearing the silk pajamas I had bought him. That last sentence sent a wave of nausea through me. My stomach convulsed. It wasn’t morning sickness; it was pure, cold disgust. I rushed to the toilet, dry-heaving until tears spilled from my eyes. I stared at the mirror, at the soft indentations—the subtle dimples—that appeared when I smiled. So that was it. He chose me simply because he needed a temporary placeholder, a stand-in to protect the still-underage Holly. I had been the perfect substitute. My vision blurred. I wiped my face and typed a reply. Before I could even put the phone down, Rhys was calling. I remembered the last time he’d called, furious, when I had simply liked one of Holly’s ambiguously intimate social media posts. Back then, I had defensively explained myself. Now, I blocked his number instantly. Every line of communication was severed. Calm returned, and I called a moving company. My belongings were few: clothes and manuscripts. Nothing that had to do with him, not even the wedding ring, came with me. I took one last look at the opulent villa. When I first moved in, I believed it would be the container for my happiness. I saw now that it was merely the gilded cage I’d been trapped in. I was free. I finished packing and cleaning, and the sun was setting when I arrived at the small rental apartment. The tiny space already felt warmer and more welcoming than the house ever had. Just as I was about to rest, the phone rang. It was Rhys’s assistant. I answered, and Rhys’s icy voice cut through the line. "Eliza Quinn, what is your game? I’ve told you repeatedly, Holly’s health is fragile." "This stunt of yours is going to send her into shock!" "Come home now, and I’ll overlook this. You will carry my child to term." My grip tightened on the phone. After running away, his only concern was Holly’s emotional stability. My safety, my physical health, my state of mind—those were irrelevant. "Eliza, are you listening? Answer me." "Get home immediately—" I hung up, blocked the number, and powered down the phone. I would grant his wish: I wouldn’t stress Holly. And I would no longer bother them. 4 I went in for the required pre-operative check-up. The doctor showed me the ultrasound. The baby’s tiny hands and feet were perfectly formed. "He's perfectly healthy," she said. "Do you truly want to give up? You're so far along. The induction process will be physically traumatic for you, and the baby will experience distress." I reached out, running a finger over the small, fragile outline on the B-scan. My heart felt squeezed by an invisible hand. This was my blood. A vivid, living human being. I closed my eyes, the pain exploding in the darkness. "I apologize. I need more time to think." The doctor nodded, giving me a few more instructions. When I left the examination room, I was trembling with cold. I looked up, and my eyes locked with Rhys Covington’s chilling glare. He was impeccably dressed in an expensive suit, the portrait of cold, calculated confidence. He strode toward me and gripped my wrist, his fingers bruising my skin. "The dramatics are over, Eliza." When I didn’t respond, he irritably rubbed his temple. His voice was laced with impatience. "The will was never stamped or notarized. It’s useless. Holly has a congenital heart defect. I simply wanted to give her a meaningful gift to wish her good health." It was a flimsy, pathetic defense. I found myself laughing—a hollow, hysterical sound that brought tears to my eyes. I pulled my hand free. The seven years of accumulated betrayal and rage burst forth. "A gift for good health? Why didn't you give her a prayer bead? What about me, Rhys? What did I get?" He flinched. The words tumbled out of me, raw and uncontrolled. "When we first married, I was hospitalized for a bleeding ulcer. You wouldn't take my calls; you said you were pulling an all-nighter at the office. But Holly sent me pictures—you were with her, watching a fashion show in Paris." "On our anniversary, you told me you were traveling for work. I saw on her social media that you were standing in line for three hours to buy her a trendy bubble tea." "Every single prenatal appointment, you claimed you were too busy. Yet you had time to take her to art exhibits, shopping trips, and birthday dinners." "You even went to Disneyland to watch fireworks with her when I nearly miscarried and bled out. Was I just some cheap fool, Rhys? Was I that pathetic?" Each accusation had once been a shard of glass, ripping me apart. Yet now, in the speaking of them, I realized the wound was finally scabbing over, hiding the poison within. Rhys’s face drained of color. His eyes finally showed a flicker of panic. "You… you knew all this?" The sheer arrogance of his surprise was hilarious. He truly believed he was a master manipulator. I managed a pained smile, even as tears rained down my cheeks. "I just chose not to say anything, Rhys. I’m not an idiot." "I kept pretending. I kept believing that the man who loved me, the one who made that vow, would eventually come home." I dug my nails into my palms until I tasted blood. I forced my smile wider, wiping my tears away with the back of my hand. "That lie died with the will. I can’t deceive myself anymore." A flash of genuine remorse crossed his features—the regret I had spent seven years dreaming of seeing. But it was too late. I spoke slowly, deliberately. "I am keeping this child." "But he will have nothing to do with you or the Covington name." I turned and walked away. He reached out to stop me but hesitated, unable to make physical contact. A week later, David Sinclair told me Rhys was refusing to sign the papers. "Eliza, if you insist on a divorce, we have to go the litigation route." "Mr. Covington stated that if you fight him, he will use every resource at his disposal to gain full custody." David looked utterly defeated. I gently rubbed my belly and fell silent. I knew Rhys was capable of winning. And I—aside from the child and the empty title of Mrs. Covington—had nothing. David added, "If the opposing party decides to stall, a custody fight could drag on for years." I took a deep breath. "I will not let my baby be born into a situation like that." "I will find a way to make him agree to the divorce."

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