The Billionaire's Broken Vow

On the day I lost our child, my husband made me sing opera—for his mistress's birthday.

John Weiss lounged on the sofa, one hand resting on Faith Harding's pregnant belly. He fastened a diamond necklace around her throat, the stones blazing under the light.

"Faith's become particular since the pregnancy," he said flatly. "You studied under the Mei school. Make yourself useful."

Faith glanced at me with barely concealed triumph, her voice dripping false modesty. "But Michelle used to be such a star. Having her perform for my baby seems like a waste. Maybe we shouldn't."

"She's being gracious," John cut in. "Don't spoil it."

My nails bit into my palms until the skin split. I kept my voice even. "I'll sing."

I delivered the aria flawlessly, each note scraping my throat like broken glass. The moment the last phrase died, I turned and climbed the stairs to my mother-in-law's quarters.

She was expecting me.

"Three years are up," I said. "I want a divorce."

——

When I first discovered John's affairs, I'd tried to leave. But my father's company was drowning, and I had nothing—no leverage, no money, no options. I went to her on my knees.

She rescued the business. The price was three more years as the perfect Mrs. Weiss.

Today, that debt was paid.

She settled into her chair with a sigh. "Three years, Michelle. Haven't you reconsidered? This life—most people would kill for it."

I swallowed the bile rising in my throat. "It's not the life I want."

I had abandoned everything—my career, my city—to follow John to Harbor City. I had loved him. But that man was gone. The stranger downstairs had taken his place.

She turned away, disappointment settling over her features. "If that's your choice, then go."

I stepped into the hallway. A violent crash rang out from the master bedroom below.

My pulse spiked. I rushed downstairs and found my White Magnolia Award shattered across the floor—reduced to glittering debris.

John knelt among the shards. But he wasn't mourning my trophy. He was cradling Faith's hand, examining a tiny scratch on her finger with frantic concern.

I froze in the doorway. The scene blurred, merging with this morning's nightmare.

I had collapsed in the café. Agony had torn through my abdomen as blood soaked my dress. I'd gripped John's sleeve, told him I was pregnant, begged him to get me to a hospital.

He'd sneered. Called it a performance. Pulled Faith close to shield her from my "drama" and walked out without a backward glance.

By the time the staff got me to the ER, it was too late. Ten minutes, the doctor said. Ten minutes earlier, and my child would have survived.

Now Faith looked up at me, eyes glistening with rehearsed innocence.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered. "I just wanted to see your trophy up close. I didn't mean to knock it over."

John drew her against his chest. "Don't apologize. You're the one who's hurt."

Then his gaze found me, and the tenderness vanished. "Why was something that fragile left out in the open? It's a hazard."

I stared at him.

Seven years ago, he'd scrapped a hundred-million-dollar deal and chartered a helicopter from Harbor City to Riverdale—just to watch me accept that award. After we married, he'd placed it on the mantle himself.

Your pride is my greatest pride, he'd told me then.

Now it was just broken glass.

When I stayed silent, irritation flickered across his face. "Never mind. There's something you need to know."

He rose, his shadow falling over me. "Faith needs proper rest during her pregnancy. She'll be taking the master bedroom. Pack your things. You can move back after the baby comes."

The cruelty of it punched the air from my lungs. He was giving my bed to the woman who'd mocked me while I bled.

"Fine," I said.

John went still. He blinked, thrown by my compliance. His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

I didn't wait. I walked out of the house and dialed the number I'd memorized years ago.

"Mr. Simmons." My voice was steady at last. "Draw up the divorce papers."