On my birthday, my wife’s childhood sweetheart burst in, clutching a child.

He kicked over the banquet table in front of me, eyes blazing.

“Ivy, give us father and son an answer right now. How long will you keep us waiting?”

That was when I learned the truth—my wife, who had always claimed to be allergic to proteins from the opposite sex, had secretly given birth to her ex’s child.

No wonder she never let me touch her. No wonder she refused to have children with me.

She already had one—with another man. And now, that man had come to my doorstep.

“Ivy James,” I said coldly, “you’d better explain yourself today, even if it kills you. Why did you betray me?”

Her expression was calm, but her tone was sharp.

“My body is mine. I can have a baby with whoever I want. It’s the twenty-first century—why are some people still so old-fashioned?”

I laughed bitterly, then slapped her.

“I won’t live as a fool. We’re going to the lawyer right now to draft a divorce agreement.”

——

The room erupted into chaos, yet everyone stayed silent, eyes glued to our family’s disgrace.

Ryan Lewis pointed at me, face red with fury.

“Ethan Grant, listen carefully! Ivy doesn’t love you—she never did. The one she’s always loved is me!”

He jabbed a finger toward my chest. “She’s not allergic to anything. That was just an excuse to keep you from touching her.”

“You forced her into this marriage, using your power to pressure her father. You destroyed what we had—two people who loved each other! Because of you, she’s lived in misery, and my son has been denied a normal life.”

He clutched the child tighter. “Do you know how pitiful he is? A child without a mother—how cruel!”

His voice echoed through the hall, bouncing off the walls.

My mother, trembling with anger, clutched her chest. She wanted to speak, to defend me, but the pain in her heart was too much.

Seeing her falter, I felt panic and dread crawling through me. Yet everyone’s eyes turned on me with scorn, as if I were the villain.

I couldn’t understand it. I was the husband—the one who’d been cheated on. My wife had another man’s child, yet I was the one despised?

Then came the whispers, the judgmental murmurs.

“I never thought it would turn out this way,” someone sighed. “A pair of true lovers torn apart by a powerful man. Forced apart, they still found their way back to each other in secret.”

“How tragic,” another said.

“Ethan’s really heartless,” someone muttered. “So cruel…”

“Despicable! We used to admire him for his charity work, and now this has come to light? How shameless!”

I blinked in disbelief. Charity? Crime? What were they even talking about?

My fists clenched. “Crimes? Did I kill someone? Burn your houses down?”

My roar silenced the room. For a brief moment, no one dared speak.

Then I turned to Ivy again—the woman who had lied to me for years. I stared at her face, once gentle and kind, now cold and unfamiliar.

“Ivy,” I said hoarsely, “tell me—why did I ever marry you?”

She hesitated, her eyes darting between Ryan and me. Then the child in his arms began to cry. Instinctively, she rushed forward and took him.

That sight shattered the end of my restraint. Watching her cradle that child—his child—ignited a fury deep within me.

I remembered the day she brought the boy home, saying he was a distant relative’s son who needed care. My mother and I accepted him without question. We treated him like our own, showered him with affection.

And all that time, he was hers.

The truth sliced through me like a blade.

Everything—our marriage, her excuses, her distance—had been built on lies.

The woman I once adored had betrayed me so completely that even the walls of my home felt foreign.

As the guests whispered and judged, as Ryan held his head high and Ivy comforted her child, I stood there surrounded by ruins—of love, of trust, of everything I once believed in.

And for the first time that night, I realized what true humiliation felt like.

Now I’m being told that the child I cherished like my own was the illegitimate son of my wife and another man.

The humiliation burned into my soul, a wound that would never heal.

To save Ryan’s pride and protect her bastard child, Ivy spoke with cold indifference.

“It was you who framed Ryan in front of my father,” she said flatly. “That’s why he forced me to marry you.”

She had no idea how those words—spoken so casually—would crush my mother and me.

In an instant, all the blame shifted to me. To everyone watching, I became the villain in our story.

“Bah! Why not turn this wedding banquet into a funeral?” someone shouted.

“Kick over the tables! Ruin his reputation! Let Ethan learn his lesson!”

The scene erupted into chaos. I caught Ryan signaling a few men, and soon the first table was overturned. Then the second. Then the third.

My mother, clutching her chest in agony, forced herself to stand.

“Stop it, everyone!” she cried weakly.

But no one listened.

They went on smashing dishes and shouting insults, all while defending Ryan and condemning me.

Rage consumed me. I rushed toward Ivy, but Ryan stepped in front of her, shouting for everyone to hear.

“Ethan, what are you doing? Do you want to take your anger out on Ivy?”

He laughed mockingly. “Go ahead—try it! As long as I’m here, you won’t touch her. Unless I’m dead, you’ll have to step over my corpse first.”

His theatrics made the crowd cheer.

“Now that’s a real man!” someone yelled.

“Yes, a man who knows how to protect a woman!”

I almost laughed at the absurdity. I was the husband—the victim—yet they painted me as the abuser, the unworthy one.

“Step over your corpse?” I sneered. “Ryan, who do you think you are? Did I hit anyone? Did you see me touch her? Anyone?”

Silence. Not a soul answered.

“Let me tell you something, Ryan—spreading lies can get you sued.”

Then I turned to Ivy. “And you—did I trick you into marrying me, or did your family beg me when they were drowning in debt?”

Before I could say more, that bastard child—coached by Ryan—ran toward my mother, pretending to help her. Then, suddenly, he fell and cried out dramatically.

“Grandma, I was just trying to help you because you looked in pain! I’m sorry! It’s my fault and Dad’s fault you’re hurt!”

He burst into tears, sobbing, “But I’m innocent! Why did you pinch me and throw me away?”

My mother froze in shock, staring at the boy she had once treated like her own blood. The child she had loved and protected had turned on her—lying without hesitation.

Before she could speak, the crowd lost control again.

They began shouting at us, calling us heartless. Some hurled objects in our direction.

“Shame on you!”

“How could you treat a child that way?”

My mother had never been so humiliated in her life. Her face turned pale, and she fainted on the spot.

Panic gripped me. I caught her in my arms and ran, shouting for help, pushing through the chaos to get her to the hospital.

But even then, the crowd kept jeering.

“She’s faking it! Just pretending to get sympathy!”

Fury surged through me. I called the security guards, ordering them to clear a path. Some people resisted and started pushing. A scuffle broke out.

Someone took photos of the scene—of guards restraining guests—and uploaded them online with twisted captions. Within hours, social media exploded with attacks against me.

“Rich bully beats up guests!”

“Heartless son harms his own mother!”

The internet seethed with lies, but I ignored them all. I told my assistant to handle the situation. My only concern was my mother’s life.

At the hospital, as she was rushed into the emergency room, my phone buzzed.

It was a video call—from Ivy.

Her face appeared on the screen, voice smooth and detached.

“Ethan,” she said, “is your mother okay?”

After all these years of marriage, I still hadn’t heard Ivy say even once, “Mom.”

What angered me most wasn’t just her words—it was her life, her space, which felt like it belonged to someone else.

My gaze drifted past her and landed on a photo hanging on the wall. It was a family portrait—of three people. Ryan held Ivy tightly in his arms, smiling like the happiest man alive.

Ivy immediately noticed my expression and hurried to block my view. “Ethan, listen to me,” she pleaded. “What I said at the banquet—I didn’t mean any of it.”

“I thought I didn’t love you, but after all these years together, I’ve developed feelings for you. Can’t you understand? What’s done is done. You just have to accept it…”

“I don’t accept it,” I cut her off sharply. “If you never liked me, why did you agree to the proposal? Why did you hide behind a lie about being allergic to men? Do you know what that did to me?”

My voice trembled, filled with bitterness. “Because I loved you, I tolerated everything. I even kept quiet when my mother begged for a grandchild, afraid you’d be angry. And you—” my tone broke—“you had a child with Ryan, then let him humiliate me at my own birthday.”

“Ivy, you’ve gone too far.”

Her face darkened, and her voice rose in defiance. “Because I loved Ryan!”

Her confession sliced through me like a blade.

“My company was going bankrupt,” she continued coldly. “Only by marrying you could I secure the funding to save it.”

She looked straight into the camera, her expression indifferent. “Ethan, it’s all in the past. What more do you want?”

At that moment, something inside me went completely still.

Whatever affection I had left for her—every fragile remnant of love—burned to ashes.

If she had shown even the slightest regret, a single word of apology, maybe I wouldn’t have hardened my heart. But she hadn’t.

“I’ll have the divorce papers sent to you,” I said flatly. “Sign them when they arrive.”

Before she could respond, I hung up.

But not long after, my phone buzzed again—with a message from Ryan.

It was a video.

My stomach turned as I watched. The humiliation at the banquet hadn’t been enough for him—he had to rub salt in my wounds.

In the video, Ivy, who once claimed she was incapable of intimacy, was laughing and affectionate, teaching Ryan everything she’d denied me. The sight made my blood boil.

She had treated me like a fool, pretending disgust for physical contact while giving herself completely to another man.

I thought of the whispers behind my back—the relatives mocking me for not having a child, the pitying looks. I had endured it all because of her. Because I loved her.

Then another message arrived from Ryan, filled with smug cruelty.

“Hahaha! See? Ivy’s not allergic to men. She’s just allergic to you.”

“Look—we already have a child.”

“For the last three years, while you thought she was yours, she came to my house every night. She let you believe her little lie. Pathetic, isn’t it?”

“Oh, and one more thing—Ivy’s leaving all her property to my son.”

I read his words without blinking. My hands trembled slightly, but there was no more anger left—only a cold, consuming desire for revenge.

I realized then that both of them deserved what was coming.

That night, I barely slept. The betrayal replayed in my mind again and again, but instead of pain, I felt clarity—icy and absolute.

The next morning, my phone rang.

It was my assistant, voice tense.

“Sir, there’s an urgent matter,” he said breathlessly.