From the moment I was born, I was treated like a princess in a crystal palace. Nothing but the best—top schools, private tutors, trips abroad. Mum would always say, “You deserve the finest things, never settle for less.” Dad just nodded along, his only daughter. But when it came to love, nothing turned out the way I dreamed.
I didn’t meet my “prince” right away. There were disappointments, short-lived romances, empty promises. Then came Oliver. I thought he was everything love was meant to be—charming, attentive, thoughtful. Flowers for no reason, reading poetry aloud, touching my hands like they were sacred. My friends swooned, all except Emily.
“Are you sure he loves you and not your father’s bank account?” she’d ask, sceptical.
I laughed. I trusted Oliver completely. Loved him fiercely, achingly. We married simply, for love, no grand reception. My parents gifted us a flat on the twenty-fifth floor with a view that stole your breath. Thanks to Dad, Oliver quickly became deputy director at the family firm. And to his credit, he worked hard. Dad even hinted he’d hand the business over one day.
We were the perfect couple—or so it seemed. After a few years, we talked about children. My parents longed for grandchildren. We decided—it was time. But I couldn’t get pregnant. Months of waiting, heartache, tears. Tests revealed the problem was me. Hormone treatments, endless appointments, failed IVF attempts—it broke me. I grew bitter, exhausted. Oliver stayed by my side. Or so I thought.
My thirtieth birthday approached. My parents insisted on a celebration—music, friends, laughter. I faked smiles, hollow inside. Midway through the evening, my phone rang. I stepped into the hall. The voice on the other end was cold, steady.
“I’m sorry to do this,” she said. “You’re a woman—you’ll understand. Oliver and I have been involved for a while. I’m pregnant. He mentioned your struggles. Please, let him go. He needs a son. My baby needs a father.”
The room spun. I wasn’t breathing. All those nights he was “with mates,” “visiting his mum,” “working late”—now clear. I wiped my face, steadied myself, and returned to the party. Smiled through the pain.
Once the guests left, I told Mum and Dad. The silence was suffocating. Dad stood, walked to Oliver, and growled, “You’re no son of mine. Get out.”
Mum took me home. I asked her to leave—needed to be alone. Oliver came back that night, standing in the doorway like a beaten dog. Begging forgiveness. Claiming he didn’t love her, that it meant nothing. I stayed silent. Let him sleep on the sofa—not out of pity, but numbness.
By morning, he was pleading again. Wanted me to smooth things over with Dad. I looked at him and saw a stranger. The love was gone.
He left. The woman, he said, was due soon. Truth or manipulation? Didn’t matter. The child I longed for still wasn’t mine. But his would be. Not with me.
Now I’m torn—walk away or fight? But fight for what? A life without him terrifies me. A life with him? Impossible.
