It was our ninth anniversary, and Mark came home with his pregnant mistress.
For nine years, I’d been the center of his world—rare orchids, public hand kisses, vows that I’d always be his only woman. Now he paraded another woman’s swollen belly like a trophy.
“She’s sensitive,” he said. “Move your things to the guest villa.”
I froze. “You’re serious? On our anniversary?”
“I wasn’t asking. Do it.”
“No,” I snapped. “You got an intern pregnant and think I’ll make room for her? Absolutely not.”
He stepped closer, sneering. “Go ahead, throw your tantrum. You’ll crawl back in three days.”
But I was already gone in spirit—I’d packed weeks ago after seeing the hotel video. Family, executives, everyone whispering bets—too bad for them.
The car from Norththorn Ridge waited beyond the gates. This time, I wasn’t leaving in tears. I was leaving for good. And I wasn’t looking back.
