Chapter 3: Ultimatums and Broken Glass

I couldn’t take it anymore and shoved him away with all the strength I had, my voice cracking into a near scream:

“Michael Harrison! Do you even hear what you’re saying?”

Michael paused, straightening his tie, then smiled at me indulgently, like a dad humoring a toddler’s meltdown in the middle of Trader Joe’s.

“Honey, if you don’t like it, I won’t mention it again. I promise you’ll never hear anything about her.” He said it like he was doing me a favor, like hiding his bastard child was some grand romantic gesture.

His casual tone made my skin crawl. My hands shook as I snatched our wedding photo off the nightstand—the one from the Drake Hotel, me in my grandmother’s pearls, him crying as I walked down the aisle—and hurled it at him. The glass shattered against the hardwood, the crash ringing through the room. My hands stung from the force, grounding me in the violence of the moment.

“Michael Harrison, let’s get a divorce!”

He laughed, that deep, mocking sound that used to make my knees weak and now just made my stomach turn.

“I won’t divorce you, Rachel. I love you, but I’m already forty-eight. I need a son to inherit Harrison Industries.” He said it like it was the most reasonable thing in the world, like fifteen years of marriage meant nothing compared to his precious legacy.

My eyes burned, tears streaming down my cheeks, hot and relentless, like summer rain on the Magnificent Mile.

“Michael Harrison, I’ve always loved children. You were the one who hated kids and refused, remember? You said they were messy and loud and would ruin what we had. Now you’re telling me you need a son?”

Michael let out a heavy sigh, running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair.

“I did say that, but that was fifteen years ago. Now, my son already exists.” He shrugged, like this child was just another fact of life, like property taxes or rush hour traffic.

With bloodshot eyes, I nearly shouted, frantic:

“I’m your legal wife. If you wanted kids, why didn’t you talk to me? We could have tried IVF, we could have adopted, we could have—”

He looked at my red, raw eyes, his face a mess of guilt and something like annoyance. He averted his gaze, voice low:

“Rachel, you’re... over forty now.” I winced, a flicker of shame running through me—a sharp memory of my last birthday party at Gibson’s Steakhouse, the candles on my cake burning a little too brightly.

He paused, jaw tightening, as if the words were hard to say. He brought up Sarah’s death in childbirth eight years ago, as if that justified everything.

“Just thinking about that kind of risk terrifies me. I really... I can’t bear the thought of losing you.” He reached for the scotch on the dresser, pouring with hands that trembled just a little.

His self-righteous love and protection made my heart feel crushed, the pain pressing all the air from my lungs. How dare he use fear as an excuse for betrayal? How dare he act like cheating was some kind of twisted devotion?

Seeing my devastated expression, rare panic flickered across his face. He reached out, then stopped, his hand suspended awkwardly before he withdrew. For a moment—just a moment—he looked like the man I’d fallen for at that gallery opening: vulnerable, uncertain, desperate for my forgiveness.

He licked his lips, explaining in a rush:

“Rachel, listen to me, it’s just one more child. My feelings for you haven’t changed! You’re still my wife, still the woman I come home to. Nothing has to change between us.”