Part 2I Aborted The Billionaires Only Heir

That night was the first time we slept in separate rooms.

I lay in the guest bed, the air thick with the scent of his expensive tobacco drifting from the master suite, and I cried until my throat was raw.

We met in college. Neither of us had a dime. Gary had big dreams of a tech startup, and I believed in him with a ferocity that bordered on madness. I turned down a prestigious grad school fellowship to work double shifts as a waitress and a secretary, funneling every cent into his vision.

I even sold the small cottage my mother had left me.

For two years, I didn't even answer my parents' calls because they hated him. Our wedding had no guests, no flowers.

In a cramped, drafty apartment, I wore a twenty-dollar vintage dress and we exchanged vows before a justice of the peace. He slipped a tiny, budget diamond on my finger, his eyes shining like the stars.

“Madeline, I promise,” he had whispered. “Once I make it, I’m going to give you the world.”

He made it. Within three years, he was the "Golden Boy of Silicon Alley."

Our second wedding—the "real" one—was the talk of the city. A sea of white peonies, a five-course meal, and three hours of fireworks over the harbor. He told the press I was his "North Star."

He used to be so loyal. I remember a story about a business partner trying to set him up with a model; Gary walked out of the room. I remember him accidentally being drugged at a gala and locking himself in a bathroom, slicing his own palm with a key just to stay focused and faithful until I could get there.

As I bandaged his hand that night, he had kissed my forehead. “I only ever want you, baby.”

“Marriage is predictable. If you don't chase a little adrenaline, what's the point?”

The two versions of Gary clashed in my mind until I felt like I was losing my sanity.

The next morning, my pillow was damp. I walked into the kitchen to find breakfast prepared—avocado toast and poached eggs, just the way I liked them. There was a sticky note on the door: Calling for rain today. Take the umbrella. Love, G.

It made me sick. The duality of it. I wished he would just be a villain. I wished he would stop acting like a loving husband while he was out destroying me. It was the "kindness" that felt like the sharpest blade.

My phone chimed incessantly. An unknown number had sent a series of media files.

I opened them, and my breath hitched. They were photos—graphic, intimate, and devastatingly clear.

“Hi Lydia,” the text read. “I’m Gary’s assistant. We spoke on the phone yesterday. I figured it was time we got acquainted. I hope we can find a way to coexist.”

Before I could process the bile rising in my throat, another message popped up.

“By the way, did you know we’ve been together for over a year? We’ve probably spent more time together in his office chair than he’s spent in your bed lately.”

“Don't be too sad. A man like Gary has needs. I’m not the only one, you know. You should really pay closer attention to the people around you…”