Chapter 4: The Truth Hurts

He was still trying to whitewash the situation with empty promises, each word cutting into me like a needle. I could smell her perfume on him now—sweet and young, nothing like the Chanel No. 5 I’d worn for fifteen years.

Seeing I wasn’t screaming, just clutching the sheets to my chest like armor, he finally seemed to relax:

“Honey, I swear, my love for you will never change.” He checked his Rolex, already calculating how long it would take to get to wherever she was waiting.

The city’s glow spilled across the hardwood floors, and somewhere below, a car alarm wailed—a reminder that life went on, even when mine was falling apart.

Listening to his completely natural tone, as if we were discussing dinner instead of the end of our marriage, I finally understood—Michael Harrison truly didn’t think he’d betrayed me.

Compared to the other playboys at the club, he was a saint: no smoking, no drinking except for business, not even looking at other women at galas.

While those men bought designer bags for their mistresses and filled Page Six with scandal, Michael only wanted me. He’d pull me into coat closets at parties, text me dirty messages during board meetings, fly home early from business trips just to spend one more night in our bed.

I believed our fairytale love would last forever. I was the envy of every woman in our circle—Rachel Harrison, the woman who tamed Chicago’s most eligible bachelor.

But now, fifteen years of dreams shattered in a heartbeat. The echo of breaking glass from our wedding photo still rang in my ears.

Maybe he once truly loved me. After his sister-in-law died in childbirth—Sarah bleeding out while his brother screamed—he’d cried and said, “Honey, I don’t want you to die. I don’t want children anymore, I only want you!” He’d held me so tight I thought my ribs would snap.

Later, he showed nothing but annoyance toward his nephew. At family dinners, he’d grimace when little Tommy cried or made a mess.

He’d even snapped, “Children are nothing but trouble, stay away from him!” at last year’s Christmas dinner, making his brother’s face darken with hurt.

So for years, no matter how much I loved children, how my arms ached holding a friend’s baby at a Fourth of July barbecue—longing so sharp I almost cried—I never brought it up. I buried that longing deep, telling myself having Michael was enough.

I stared at the face on TV—even though she’d just given birth and looked exhausted, she radiated youth. Twenty-five, maybe, with skin and eyes untouched by heartbreak. I memorized her name: Ashley Monroe.

I smiled through my tears, a bitter twist, pulled out the abortion surgery form from the drawer—the one I’d hidden for three years—and threw it at him:

“Michael Harrison, we had a child too.”