Chapter 1

Eight months pregnant, I found a will inside the safe in my husband's study.

All of his corporate shares, luxury estates, along with ten private jets and five private islands.

Every single bit of it was to be unconditionally gifted upon his death to Chloe Vance—the underprivileged college student he had been sponsoring.

Yet when we got married, he insisted on a strict prenuptial agreement. I didn't get a single dime.

Back then, he had looked at me with cold indifference and said, "You're capable and independent. Money would only taint our love."

Seven years of marriage, and my name wasn't even on the deed to our home.

"Who gave you permission to touch my things?"

Julian's voice was ice-cold, his brows knitted with pure fury.

I didn't cry. I didn't scream. "The passcode was Chloe's birthday."

He snatched the documents from my hands, changed the passcode right in front of me, and locked the safe.

"It's just a passcode. Can you stop making a scene?"

I looked at him calmly. "I want a divorce."

He didn't take me seriously at all. He just locked the study door and told me to get lost, warning me never to touch his belongings again.

I nodded, turned around, and booked an appointment for an abortion.

I won't touch his things ever again.

And the child in my belly—I don't want it anymore either.

"Mrs. Sterling, are you certain you want to proceed with the procedure? You're quite far along. It carries significant risks to your health."

The doctor's gentle warning sent a sharp pang through my heart.

I bit down on the tip of my tongue, fighting back the rising tide of emotion.

"I'm certain. Please schedule me for next week."

The confirmation text arrived shortly after.

Clutching my aching lower belly, I headed straight to a law firm I was familiar with.

David, my attorney, handed me a cup of warm water.

"Mrs. Sterling, there is no need for you to walk away empty-handed. Under marital property laws, you are entitled to at least half of the assets acquired during the marriage."

The steam rose from the cup, making my eyes sting.

Before Julian married me, he had legally protected every last cent of his assets.

Even after our wedding, all of his income was funneled through corporate proxies and trusts.

Nothing was held in his personal name.

On our wedding day, he had made it abundantly clear.

He would never let a piece of paper force him to hand over half of everything he had worked so hard to build.

At the time, I thought he was just bitter because his father had pushed him into the marriage.

I understood how difficult his journey had been, how hard he had fought for his position.

So I was obedient. I asked for nothing.

I even willingly signed a postnup waiving all claims.

It was only when I saw that will that the truth finally hit me.

The things he refused to give me...

He had already figured out how to legally hand them over to someone else.

It wasn't that he didn't believe in marriage. It was simply that I wasn't the bride he had envisioned.

I took a small sip of warm water, my voice hoarse with suppressed agony.

"That won't be necessary, David. I don't want his money. I just want out."

As he drafted the paperwork, my hands wouldn't stop shaking.

It wasn't heartbreak anymore. It was pure, burning rage.

Seven years of marriage. Seven years of being treated like an absolute fool.

He was ready to leave an empire to Chloe Vance.

Yet in all these years, the only gift he ever gave me was a secondhand watch.

A cheap piece of junk that didn't cost more than ten dollars at a thrift store.

Even when I took a severe fall during my pregnancy and nearly lost the baby...

He was busy spending the day with Chloe at Disneyland for her birthday.

And the cruelest joke of all?

He had made me design their wedding outfits with my own hands.

Two months ago, Julian brought home a set of measurements.

I was bedridden, fragile, fighting desperately to keep the pregnancy viable, but he forced me out of bed to sketch.

He had acted so nonchalant: "A close friend is getting married. Design the best bespoke bridal wear you can."

The groom's measurements matched his down to the millimeter.

And embroidered onto the train of the bride's gown were the initials "CV"—Chloe Vance.

David handed me the divorce agreement and gently urged, "Mrs. Sterling, at the very least, don't walk away from your own earnings..."

A bitter smile touched my lips.

Over the years, Julian had never contributed a single cent to our household.

Every grocery run, every utility bill, had been paid for by my freelance design work.

To him, I was probably just cheap and convenient.

A live-in maid and companion who cost him nothing and willingly sacrificed everything to keep a roof over our heads.

When I got home to sign the papers, a sharp cramp tore through my lower abdomen.

I held my stomach. The baby was kicking frantically.

My fully formed little boy seemed to be either comforting me or protesting the pain.

Tears spilled freely down my cheeks.

I'm sorry. Mommy failed to protect you.