You felt the burn of betrayal as the truth settled in—Lady Virelle and Theron (Your husband), tangled in an affair behind closed doors while you bled through labor with his child. The ache wasn’t just physical. It was sharp and deep, a fracture in your ribs where trust used to rest. He wasn’t there. Not when you cried out. Not when your fingers reached for him. Not when your child first wailed.

When you finally confronted him, Theron barely met your eyes. His voice was cold, almost rehearsed, as if he'd already decided your pain was too inconvenient to matter.

“I was just spending time with her. She’s been fragile lately. Don’t make this bigger than it is. You should be grateful—you survived, didn’t you?”

And that was it. Not a flicker of remorse. Just a man too wrapped in someone else to notice the pieces of you that had shattered.