One month before my wedding to my boyfriend, he announced he wanted to have a child with his "first love."

I refused, but he brought it up every single day.

Two weeks before the ceremony, I received a prenatal checkup report.

That’s when I discovered his so-called "first love" was already nearly a month pregnant.

It turned out he’d never intended to seek my consent at all.

In that moment, years of affection evaporated like smoke.

So, I canceled the wedding, destroyed every trace of our memories, and on what should have been our wedding day, I walked into a closed-off research lab.

From then on, he meant nothing to me.

“I’ve explained this to you a thousand times—Beverly has cancer and only a year left. Her biggest wish is to leave her family with a child. She saved my life once, and now I have to help her fulfill this wish!”

I’d heard this script from Dominic Pearson countless times over the past two weeks.

When he first proposed the idea, I’d shut it down immediately.

But he wouldn’t drop it, nagging me daily. His tone had shifted too—from tentative pleading to righteous anger, as if I were the villain for refusing.

Since when did repaying a life debt require fathering a child?

Consistent arguments had drained me. I no longer had the energy to reason with him. Instead, I stared at the man I’d loved for five years and asked, voice trembling, “Dominic, our wedding is in two weeks. Now you want to have a baby with another woman? What am I to you?”

For the first time, Dominic seemed to notice the storm cloud of despair hanging over me. His tone softened slightly.

“Jane, I know this is hard… but I’m the only one who can help Beverly. I can’t let her die with this regret.

“It’s just IVF—nothing will happen between us.

“If you love me, you’ll understand.”

My heart plummeted. It was clear he’d already made up his mind. My feelings were irrelevant.

Dominic opened his mouth to continue, but a phone ring cut him off. He glanced at the screen and stepped onto the balcony.

Watching his retreating figure, I smiled bitterly.

Dominic and I had grown up together—same classes since elementary school, same college. I’d loved him silently for years, but he’d never noticed… until graduation, when he finally acknowledged my devotion and agreed to date.

You’d think after 20 years, we’d trust each other completely. Yet in five years as a couple, I’d never once touched his phone. He took every call in secret.

Once, while he lay feverish in bed, his phone buzzed nonstop. I tried to mute it, but the moment my finger grazed the screen, he woke up and accused me of snooping. No explanation helped. I spent that night alone on the couch.

I told myself it was just his guarded nature—that someday, I’d earn his trust. But five years changed nothing. Now he wanted a child with another woman, indifferent to how his actual fiancée might feel.

When Dominic returned, he was grinning. He grabbed his jacket and headed for the door.

“I need to go. Think about what I said.”

His hurried footsteps echoed. Only one person made him rush like that: Beverly.

Sure enough, minutes later, Beverly sent a photo. When I zoomed in, my legs nearly gave out.

It was a prenatal report—and the patient’s name was Beverly.

The listed conception date made my head spin.

Three weeks pregnant.

Which meant Dominic and Beverly had undergone IVF over a month ago.

He’d never planned to discuss this with me—never intended to ask for my consent.

So why had he hounded me about it daily? To absolve his guilt? What did I even mean to him?

My legs buckled, and I sank to the floor.

I felt my heart clenched, strangling every breath.

No wonder Dominic had rushed out earlier, grinning like a fool after that call.

He’d known. They did a good job. Beverly was pregnant.

He was probably at the hospital with her now, clinking champagne glasses over their twisted “miracle.”

I pressed my palms against my eyelids, but the image of that report burned brighter.

How could the man I’d loved for decades become another woman’s child’s father?

Two months ago, he’d tearfully accepted my proposal. I’d booked the cathedral and chosen a lace gown for our wedding.

I’d imagined his hands steadying mine as we cut the cake. Now those fantasies popped like soap bubbles, leaving only acid in my throat.

My phone buzzed, jolting me back. I answered mechanically.

“Jane!” Emily’s voice crackled with excitement. “I know it’s last-minute, but Dr. Evans begged me to ask again—will you join the Chrysalis Lab? You’d revolutionize his research!”

Six months ago, Dr. Evans had personally offered me the role. The catch? Total isolation—no calls, no emails, no contact for months or even years.

Back then, I’d refused. The thought of losing Dominic terrified me more than missing a Nobel-worthy breakthrough.

“He’s willing to compromise!” Emily rushed on. “Two months in the lab, two weeks off. You’d still have time for Dominic—”

Dominic.

The name now tasted like rust. My eyes drifted to the desk calendar.

October 10th—once circled in glittery pink—now glared back in harsh red Sharpie.

Fifteen days until my wedding.

Fifteen days until freedom.

“I’ll join,” I cut in, voice steadier than I felt. “No compromises. Full protocol.”

“But your honeymoon—”

“Schedule me for the 10th.”

Silence. Then a soft click as Emily hung up, too tactful to ask why I’d chosen my wedding day.

I traced the calendar’s red ring.

Fifteen days to grieve twenty years of love.

Fifteen days until I vanished into a lab—and Dominic Pearson became a ghost.

Dominic didn’t come home that night, and I didn’t call to ask where he was.

I’d already seen Beverly’s social media updates.

After leaving the hospital, they’d rushed to her family’s house to announce the pregnancy. In the photos, Beverly’s grandmother clasped Dominic’s hand warmly while he rested his other palm on Beverly’s belly, smiling like a doting husband.

For five years together, Dominic had only visited my family once—after accepting my proposal. Despite living just 30 minutes away, he’d never bothered before, claiming he “felt awkward around elders.” Even that single visit had been stiffly polite, nothing like the tender ease he showed with Beverly’s family.

I swallowed the bitterness and turned off my phone.

The next day, I met friends to break the news about canceling the wedding.

Dominic had always hated ceremonies, calling them “pointless pomp.” I’d fought to keep ours small—just close family and friends. Now, their shocked reactions stung:

“You’ve loved him for decades! You finally bagged your ‘hard-to-get prince’ and you’re just… letting go?”

Letting go.

The words needled me. Of course it wasn’t easy. Twenty years of chasing him, only to walk away weeks before our vows. But I’d finally accepted the truth: this relationship had always been one-sided.

Dominic never paused his stride for me. I’d deluded myself into thinking time would wear down his walls, that marriage would force his heart open.

Then Beverly arrived six months ago—his “lifesaver”—and everything cracked.

I watched him laugh with her, soften for her, care for her in ways he’d never shown me. Even his coldness toward my family vanished around hers. When she was diagnosed with cancer, he didn’t hesitate: IVF, a child, a twisted happily-ever-after.

I didn’t explain the details to my friends. Just said I’d joined a closed-off research lab and would vanish for years. To soften the blow, I drank with them until midnight.

When I stumbled home, Dominic had just returned. He recoiled at the smell of alcohol, covering his nose like I’d brought in sewage.

“Stay back. I don’t want that stench on me.”

I almost laughed. Of course. Beverly’s pregnant—can’t risk contaminating the sacred heir.

But I said nothing, showered, and headed to bed.

As I passed the living room, Dominic was typing furiously on his phone, grin brighter than our engagement photos. I kept walking—until his voice froze me.

“We need to talk.”

The last time he’d said that, he’d dropped the “I want to make a baby with my ex” bomb. Now, with Beverly already pregnant, what fresh hell awaited?