When I returned home with my babies, I discovered the house had already been transferred into the mistress’s name. I called my parents in tear “I chose wrong. You were right about him.” They thought I had surrendered. They had no idea who my parents really were… Two days later, karma arrived.
I was still bleeding when my husband walked into my hospital room with another woman on his arm. She carried a black Birkin like a trophy, her red nails resting on the leather as if my suffering were background music.
Our three newborn sons slept in clear bassinets beside me, wrapped like tiny miracles. I had not slept in thirty-six hours. My body felt broken open. My face was swollen. My hair clung damply to my temples.
And there stood Adrian Vale, my husband of five years, smiling like he had just won a war.
Beside him, Celeste Monroe tilted her head. “Oh,” she said softly. “She looks worse than you said.”
Adrian laughed.
The sound cut deeper than the stitches.
I stared at him, waiting for shame to appear. None did. He wore a navy suit, fresh cologne, and the cold expression of a man who had practiced cruelty in the mirror.
He dropped a folder onto my hospital blanket.
“Sign the divorce,” he said.
My fingers curled around the edge of the sheet. “Here?”
“Where else?” His eyes swept over me with disgust. “You’re too ugly now, Evelyn. You should be grateful I’m making this clean.”
Celeste stepped closer, her perfume choking the room. “Adrian wants a fresh start. A public one.”
One of my babies whimpered. I reached for him, but pain flashed through my abdomen. Adrian did not move.
“You planned this,” I whispered.
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