From the moment I was born, I was raised like a princess in a crystal palace. Only the best for me—the finest schools, private tutors, trips abroad. My mother would say, “You deserve nothing but the best—never settle for less.” My father would sigh and nod—the only daughter, after all. But when it came to true happiness, nothing turned out the way I’d dreamed.
I didn’t meet my “prince” right away. There were disappointments, casual flings, empty promises. But when William came along, I thought—this must be what love is meant to feel like. He was polite, attentive, meticulous. He brought me flowers for no reason, read me poetry, touched my fingers like they were sacred. My friends were envious, dazzled. All but Daphne.
“Are you sure he loves you, and not just your father’s bank account?” she’d ask skeptically.
I laughed. I trusted William as much as I trusted myself. I loved him—achingly, desperately. We married quietly, for love, without a grand reception. My parents gifted us a flat in a new high-rise, twenty-five floors up, with a view that stole your breath. And Will, thanks to my father, quickly rose to deputy director in the family business. To his credit, he worked hard—never slacked. My father even hinted he’d hand over the company to him one day.
We were the perfect couple—so it seemed. A few years in, we talked about children. My parents longed for grandchildren. We agreed—it was time. But I couldn’t conceive. Months of hoping, despairing, crying. Tests revealed the problem was me. I went through treatments, hormone therapy, tried to stay hopeful. Eventually, we tried IVF. Several failed attempts shattered me. I grew bitter, exhausted, withdrawn. But Will was beside me—or so I thought.
My thirtieth birthday approached. My parents insisted on a party—music, guests, a proper celebration. They wanted to bring back my smile. I played along, pretending to be cheerful while everything inside me crumbled. Midway through the evening, my phone rang. I stepped into the next room to answer. Laughter buzzed in the living room, but the voice on the line was cold. A stranger’s voice. Certain.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” she began. “I know this must be painful, but as a woman, you’ll understand. William and I have been together for a while. I’m expecting his child. He told me about your… difficulties. Please, let him go. He needs a son. My child needs a father.”
I stopped breathing. The room tilted. I wanted to scream, run, vanish. Suddenly, it made sense—all those evenings he claimed to be with friends, his mother, at meetings. Why he’d grown distant, colder, silent.
I wiped my face, steadied myself, and returned to the table. I smiled. Laughter stuck in my throat, my eyes burned, but I held it together. After the guests left, only my parents remained. That’s when I said,
“Mum, Dad… William’s been cheating. And that woman is having his baby.”
The room went tomb-silent. My father stood, walked slowly to my husband, and said flatly, “You’re no son of mine. Get out of my house.”
Mum took me home, wanted to stay, but I asked her to leave. I needed to be alone. That night, William returned. He stood in the hallway like a whipped dog. Begged forgiveness. Said he didn’t love her. That it was a mistake. Maybe she’d bewitched him. I stayed silent. Let him stay—not out of pity, but because I was too hollow to throw him out.
By morning, he was pleading again. Wanted me to talk to my father, convince him we were fine. 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 manipulation. But I knew this: the child I’d longed for still wasn’t mine. And his—soon would be. Not with me.
Now I stand at a crossroads: walk away or fight? But what’s left to fight for when he’s already betrayed me? Life without him terrifies me. But staying? That’s no life at all.
