Part 1I Aborted The Billionaires Only Heir

On our eighth wedding anniversary, I had everything perfectly arranged. The candlelight was soft, the steak was resting, and tucked beneath my napkin was a positive pregnancy test—the surprise I had waited years to give him.

Then, my phone buzzed. A FaceTime call from Gary.

The background was a chaotic blur of a dimly lit lounge. His voice was thick, a strange, gravelly rasp that made my skin crawl. But it was the angry red mark on the side of his neck that caught the light, bright and unmistakable.

“Hey, babe. Guess what I’ve been up to?” He grinned, that lopsided, playful smirk that used to make my heart melt. Now, his tone felt like a needle driving into my ear.

The blood in my veins turned to ice. My hand shook as I gripped the edge of the table. “Gary… are you with someone else?”

A woman’s sultry giggle drifted through the speaker, followed by a blonde head leaning into the frame. “Mr. Smith, I told you your wife wasn't stupid. You look a little too… satisfied to be at a business meeting.”

Gary didn't even look guilty. If anything, he looked amused. “Don’t be like that, honey. Eight years is a long time. Things get a little stale. I just needed a bit of a spark.”

“I know it’s our anniversary,” he added, his tone dismissive as he checked his watch. “I’ll be home tonight to make it up to you. Consider it a peace offering.”

He hung up before I could scream.

I stared at the cooling dinner, the candles flickering like dying stars. I picked up the pregnancy test and, with trembling fingers, snapped it in half, then shredded the medical report into a hundred tiny white flakes.

Gary, I don't want your peace offering.

I don’t want anything of yours ever again.

* * *

The first thing I did after hanging up was drive to the clinic. I had an appointment for a follow-up, but I walked in and asked for a termination instead.

This was supposed to be our miracle. Eight years of marriage, years of hormones, hundreds of needles, and a cabinet full of failed tests. This was our first.

Now, as the cold instruments moved inside me, I felt nothing but a hollow, echoing void.

Our child—the future I had built in my head—was gone before it ever truly began.

Gary didn't get home until long after midnight. He carried the scent of expensive bourbon and the musky, metallic tang of sex.

He glanced at the trash can, where the ruined dinner sat. He sighed, walking over and resting his chin on my shoulder, his arms looping around my waist. I stood rigid, my skin crawling where he touched me.

“What? Still pouting?” he murmured.

“Evelyn,” he said, using my name with a patronizing sweetness. “How could you be so oblivious? I’ve been seeing her for a year. Did you really just notice?”

“Remember that time you brought lunch to the office? She was under my desk the whole time, wearing that French maid outfit you refused to touch. If you won’t do the things I like, why shouldn’t another woman?”

I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper. I didn't say a word. I just felt a deep, oily wave of nausea.

Somewhere along the line, the man who used to hold my hand in the rain had decided that stability was a prison. He wanted "sparks." He wanted the thrill of the illicit.

I remembered finding a long, honey-blonde hair on his blazer months ago. I remembered the scent of Jo Malone perfume that wasn't mine. He had told me it was just "lingering smoke from a client meeting."

I had forced myself to believe him. Or maybe I was just too terrified to imagine a world where he wasn't my anchor.

Looking at his smiling, handsome face now, I realized the anchor had become a millstone.

“Anyway, I know how big-hearted you are,” Gary said, patting my hip. “I’ll get you that Birkin you wanted tomorrow. And don't worry—those girls are just playthings. None of them are coming home. You’re still the only Mrs. Smith. You’re the one I love.”

He leaned in to kiss me, and I flinched away as if he were a leper.

“Why?” I whispered. My voice was a ghost of itself. I wanted to ask how the boy who worked three jobs to buy my engagement ring became this hollowed-out monster.

He shrugged, completely unbothered. “There is no ‘why.’ Everyone in my circle does it. Work is stressful, marriage is predictable. If you don’t chase a little adrenaline, what’s the point of living?”

Slap.

The sound echoed through the sterile kitchen. Gary’s head snapped to the side. A bright red handprint bloomed on his cheek, and a bead of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth.

Before he could speak, I threw the divorce papers onto the counter.

“I want a divorce, Gary.”

He slowly turned his head back, wiping the blood with his thumb. His eyes were dark, simmering with a dangerous kind of confidence.

“Lydia, you can’t leave me. You know that. Being my wife is the only thing keeping you in this lifestyle. It’s the only thing paying for your grandmother’s specialized care in Zurich.”

He smiled, a cold, thin line. “If you walk out that door, you have nothing. I’ll make sure my lawyers don't leave you a single cent.”

He picked up the papers and tore them into confetti, letting them rain down on the floor.