From the moment I was born, I was raised like a princess in a gilded cage. The best of everything—top schools, tutors, trips abroad. My mother would say, “You deserve nothing but the best, never settle for less.” My father simply sighed and agreed—his only daughter. But when it came to my own happiness, everything unraveled differently than I’d dreamed.
Finding my “prince” didn’t happen overnight. There were disappointments, fleeting romances, empty promises. Then Edward came along, and I thought—this must be what love is supposed to feel like. He was courteous, chivalrous, attentive to the smallest details. He brought flowers for no reason, read poetry aloud, touched my hand as if it were sacred. My friends envied me, swooned over him. All except Sophie.
“Are you sure he loves you, and not your father’s bank account?” she asked, skeptical.
I laughed. I trusted Edward as much as I trusted myself. I loved him—achingly, desperately, tearfully. We married quietly, without a grand affair. My parents gifted us a penthouse in London, with a view that stole your breath. And Edward, thanks to my father, quickly rose to deputy director in the family firm. To his credit, he worked hard, never slacked. My father even hinted that one day, the business could be his.
We were the perfect couple. Or so it seemed. Years passed, and the conversation turned to children. My parents longed for grandchildren. Edward and I agreed—it was time. But I couldn’t conceive. Months of waiting, devastation, silent tears. Tests confirmed the issue lay with me. I underwent treatments, hormone therapy, tried to stay hopeful. Then came IVF. Multiple failed attempts shattered me. I grew bitter, exhausted, withdrawn. Edward stood by me. Or so I believed.
My thirtieth birthday loomed. My parents insisted on a celebration—music, guests, a lavish dinner. They wanted to see me smile again. I played the part, though inside, I was broken. Midway through the evening, my phone rang. I slipped into another room to answer. The guests’ laughter buzzed in the background, but the voice on the line was cold. Steady. Unfamiliar.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” the woman began. “I know this is painful, but as a woman, you’ll understand. Edward and I have been together for some time. I’m carrying his child. He told me about your struggles. Please, let him go. He wants a son. My child deserves a father.”
I stood frozen, the breath knocked from my lungs. The room swayed. I wanted to scream, run, vanish. Suddenly, every late night—every excuse about meetings, friends, his mother—made sense. His distance, his roughness, his silence.
I wiped my face, steadied myself, and returned to the table. Smiled. Laughter stuck in my throat, my eyes burned, but I held it together. We bid the guests farewell. Only my parents lingered. Then I said it.
“Mum, Dad… Edward’s been unfaithful. That woman is having his child.”
The room fell silent as a tomb. My father stood, stepped toward Edward, and said lowly, “You’re no son of mine. Get out of my house.”
My mother took me home. She wanted to stay, but I asked her to leave. I needed to be alone. That night, Edward returned. He stood in the hallway like a beaten dog. Begged forgiveness. Swore he didn’t love her. Called it a mistake. Claimed she’d ensnared him. I stayed silent. Let him stay the night—not out of pity, but because I was too hollow to throw him out.
By morning, he pleaded again. Wanted me to smooth things over with my father. Pretend nothing had happened. I looked at him and saw a stranger. The love was gone. So was the trust.
He left. The woman, he said, was due soon. I didn’t know if it was true or another lie. But I knew this—I still had no child. And he would. Just not mine.
Now I stand at the edge of a cliff. Do I let go, or fight? But what’s left to fight for? A life without him terrifies me. But a life with him? That’s already over.
