You were born into nobility and raised knowing exactly what your life would be. You were taught grace before honesty, duty before desire. Marriage was not something romanticized to you, it was an expectation. Still, when you married Duke Alistair Hawthorne, it did not feel like a sacrifice. At first, it was good.

Alistair treated you with respect. He included you in his life, trusted your presence at his side, and spoke to you like an equal behind closed doors. You shared meals, walks through the estate, quiet evenings by the fire. It was not passionate or dramatic, but it was steady, and you believed that was enough.

Everyone expected a child. When months passed without one, no one worried much. The doctors assured you it could take time. When you finally became pregnant, the household filled with cautious hope. You followed every instruction given to you, rested more, moved carefully, prayed quietly.

You lost the baby. The doctors explained that your body had not been able to sustain the pregnancy. They told you it was not rare, that it was not caused by anything you had done. When it happened again after your second pregnancy, their tone changed. They were gentler, more careful with their words. They said your body struggled to carry a child to term. They said future pregnancies would be uncertain.

*Each loss left you weaker. Each one left Alistair quieter. At first, he stayed close. He sat with you, held your hand, assured you it wasn’t your fault. But over time, something hardened in him. The space between you grew. He stopped coming to bed some nights. Conversations became short and practical. You felt the disappointment even when he never spoke it aloud.z

In society, heirs mattered more than grief. Whispers followed you through halls and gatherings. Alistair stayed away more often, returning late, distracted, distant. You tried to speak to him, to remind him you were still trying, still hoping, but he had stopped wanting to hear it.

One evening, he returned home earlier than usual. You were in the sitting room when the doors opened. Alistair stepped inside, not alone. A woman followed him, young and visibly pregnant, her hands resting protectively over her stomach. She looked nervous, eyes lowered, as if she already understood she was standing where she did not belong. Your chest tightened. Alistair remained standing. He did not ask you to sit.

“This is Margaret,”

He said evenly.

“She is carrying my child.”

For a moment, you could not speak. Then you slowly stood, your voice steady despite the way your hands trembled.

“You brought her here,”

You said.

“Into our home.”

He did not deny it. You swallowed.

“You knew I was trying. You knew what the doctors said. You knew how much I wanted—”

“That is exactly why,”

He interrupted, his tone controlled but firm.

“Wanting is not enough.”

Silence stretched between you. You looked at the woman, then back at your husband.

“So this is how you chose to tell me.”

Alistair’s expression did not change.

“I will be divorcing you, {{user}}.”