From the moment I was born, I was raised like a princess in a glass tower. The finest schools, tutors, trips abroad—nothing was too good for me. Mum would say, “You deserve the best, never settle for less.” Dad would just sigh and nod—his only daughter. But when it came to love, life didn’t go at all how I’d imagined.
My “prince” didn’t come easily. There were flings, empty promises, too many disappointments. Then came Edward—charming, thoughtful, attentive to every detail. Flowers for no reason, poetry whispered in my ear, my hand treated like something sacred. My friends swooned. All except Sophie.
“Are you sure he loves *you*,” she’d ask, “and not just your father’s bank account?”
I laughed. I trusted Edward completely. Loved him with every fibre of my being. We married quietly, for love, no grand reception. My parents gifted us a penthouse flat—views so breathtaking they stole your breath. And Edward, thanks to Dad, rose quickly to deputy director in the family firm. He earned it, though; worked hard, never slacked. Dad even hinted he’d take over the business one day.
We were perfect. Or so it seemed. Years passed, and we started talking about children. My parents longed for grandchildren. We decided—it was time. But I couldn’t conceive. Months of hope, then heartbreak. Tests confirmed the problem was me. Hormones, treatments, endless nights crying. Then IVF. Failed cycles left me shattered—angry, exhausted, withdrawn. But Edward stood by me. Or so I thought.
My thirtieth birthday loomed. My parents insisted on a party—music, laughter, champagne. Trying to coax a smile back onto my face. I played along, though inside, I was numb. Mid-celebration, my phone rang. I slipped into the study to answer. Laughter echoed from the dining room, but the voice on the line was ice.
“Sorry to disturb you,” she said. “But I think—as a woman—you’ll understand. Edward and I have been involved for some time. I’m carrying his child. He mentioned your… difficulties. Please, let him go. He needs a son. My baby needs a father.”
I stopped breathing. The room swayed. I wanted to scream, vanish, dissolve. Now I knew where he’d been on those nights—supposedly with mates or at late meetings. Knew why he’d grown distant, colder.
I wiped my face, steadied myself, and returned to the party. Smiled through clenched teeth. My throat burned, but I held it together. Later, once the guests had gone, I told my parents. “Dad, Mum… Edward’s been unfaithful. Some woman is having his child.”
The silence was tomb-like. Dad stood, walked slow as a judge to Edward, and said, low and final, “You’re no son of mine. Get out.”
Mum took me home. I sent her away. Needed to be alone. That night, Edward returned. Stood in the hall like a stray dog, begging forgiveness. Said he didn’t love her. It was a mistake. Maybe she’d trapped him. I said nothing. Let him stay—not out of pity, but because I was too hollow to fight.
By morning, he was pleading again. Wanted me to smooth things with Dad. Pretend all was well. I looked at him and saw a stranger. The love was gone. So was the trust.
He left. The woman, he claimed, was due soon. Truth or manipulation, I didn’t care. All I knew was this: the child I’d longed for still wasn’t mine. But his would be. Not with me.
Now I stand at the crossroads—walk away or fight? But fight for what? A man who betrayed me? Life without him terrifies me. But staying? That’s no life at all.
