The memorial service for my child was only halfway through when my husband, business tycoon Brett Prescott, rushed off to be with his chief of staff, Sienna Shaw.

I stood alone in the memorial garden I’d built for our baby, crying before the small headstone. Meanwhile, he was on the phone, explaining that Sienna had fumbled a major project and was having a breakdown. He had to go to her.

I played my last card, threatening that if he walked out, we were finished. He just hung up.

The betrayals didn't stop. After a cocktail party, Sienna "accidentally" noticed a tattoo on Brett's arm—a design symbolizing our family of three. When she suggested it made her feel "excluded," he casually told me he was having it changed to a "more professional company logo."

When Sienna proposed demolishing my memorial garden to build a tennis court for a client, Brett sided with her, urging me not to be so emotional.

That day, a bulldozer crushed the headstone engraved with my child's name. As I knelt in the mud, trying to gather the broken fragments, my husband finally arrived. He just stared at me, filthy and weeping, then frowned and instinctively tugged at the hem of his expensive suit.

He gazed down at my grief-stricken, mud-caked form and said coolly, "It is what it is, Juliana. Time to move on."

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1

I packed the fragments of the headstone into a box, drove to my lawyer's office, and blocked Brett on everything.

Throughout the drive, Brett's apology email replayed in my mind. He claimed he’d had to miss the memorial because of an impromptu international video conference.

But I knew damn well the "conference hall" he mentioned was Sienna's private apartment.

It was only in that moment that I truly understood. It wasn’t that Brett was forgetful; it was that he didn’t care about anything that involved me.

After so many years together, I knew Brett’s memory for personal matters was appalling. He forgot my birthdays, our anniversaries, and even needed his secretary to remind him of my due date when I was pregnant.

But when it came to Sienna, his memory was suddenly flawless. He could recall the deadline for every project she managed, her coffee preference, and even the name of her yapping little dog.

Only now did I see the truth behind his "selective memory."

Halfway through the service, Brett's personal phone had rung. He answered, his brow furrowed. "What? The contract was canceled?"

I watched the color drain from his face. "Sienna's having a breakdown? Okay, I'm on my way."

After hanging up, he rushed to explain, "Juliana, the big project Sienna's handling just hit a wall. The client is threatening to pull the plug. She's falling apart and needs my support right now."

I stood before our child's headstone, my vision blurred with tears. "Brett, this is our child's memorial."

He straightened his suit. "I know, but Juliana, this is a billion-dollar deal. Sienna can't handle this alone. She needs me."

My mind flooded with all the moments he'd missed. Every prenatal check-up, an "urgent meeting." Our wedding anniversary, a last-minute flight for Sienna's project presentation. The night I miscarried, an all-nighter for one of her "creative ideas."

My voice trembled. "If you walk out that door today, our marriage is over."

Brett shot me an impatient glance. "Juliana, don't be so dramatic. I'll be back as soon as I can."

With that, he strode out of the memorial garden without a second glance.

I completed the farewell ceremony for my child alone. It was a familiar feeling—I had faced every kick and endured every wave of morning sickness alone, too.

From beginning to end, I was the only one who had cherished our child's arrival and mourned their departure.

A quick call to Brett's secretary confirmed my suspicions. His first stop after leaving the memorial was Sienna's luxury apartment on the Upper East Side.

That night, I had Manhattan's top divorce lawyer draft a detailed separation agreement.

When I returned home the next day, I saw Brett walk into the living room with Sienna. She looked exhausted, but a triumphant glow radiated from her.

Sienna's clothes were slightly rumpled, but her eyes glittered with satisfaction. She clung to Brett's arm, staking her claim.

Instead of taking Brett to task for abandoning his own child's memorial, his family praised him for salvaging a major project.

Brett's grandmother, the family matriarch, even turned on me. "Juliana, you're being far too sensitive. Brett is at a critical stage in his career. You should be more supportive, not add to his burdens."

She paused, her tone hardening. "You need to focus on getting healthy and providing another heir for the Prescott family as soon as possible."

I felt their expectant gazes, as if my only purpose was to be a breeding vessel for the next Prescott heir.

"I'm not having any more children." My voice was quiet but firm.

The matriarch's expression froze; she clearly couldn't comprehend such defiance.

Brett hurried over, trying to smooth things over. "Grandma, Juliana is still hurting. Let's give her some time and talk about another baby later."

He turned to me, lowering his voice. "Juliana, you know how much the family wants an heir. We can't let them down."

I pulled the thick legal document from my Hermès handbag and slapped it into his hand.

I looked at his and his entire family's stunned faces and said calmly, "Sign it. If you want an heir, have one with someone else."

In the tense silence, Sienna immediately stepped forward, taking Brett's arm with feigned concern. "What's wrong?"

The gesture was practiced, fluid, as if such intimacy was already second nature.

Brett didn't even glance at the divorce papers, let alone the section detailing the massive division of assets. He simply flipped to the last page and signed his name without hesitation.

After signing, he turned to Sienna, his voice softening. "You handled this exceptionally. That project was revived because of you. I'll make sure you get the reward you deserve."

A triumphant smirk touched Sienna's lips before she cast an "inadvertent" glance at the tattoo on the inside of Brett's wrist.

It was an exquisite design, with our initials, J and B, intertwined around a tiny baby cradle—a symbol of the family we had once dreamed of.

"Brett," Sienna said, her tone a mask of professional tact, "I couldn't help but notice your tattoo. In some business settings, it might seem a bit too… 'family-oriented.' It could make clients question your commitment."

She paused, a sly glint in her eyes. "Maybe you should consider changing it to something more corporate? Like the company logo?"

My heart plummeted. That tattoo held the last beautiful memory of our marriage.

But Brett just nodded. "That's a good point. A professional image is key."

He turned to me, his tone laced with impatience. "Juliana, you understand, right? It's just for the company."

My blood ran cold. But then I thought, we're getting a divorce. Why should I even care?

"Of course," I forced a brittle smile. "Since you're changing it, why not incorporate 'SS' for Sienna Shaw? That would be even more meaningful."

The sarcasm soared right over his head; Brett actually seemed to think it was a good idea.

As I began packing my design drafts and personal effects, Brett followed me into my study, clearly assuming I was just throwing a tantrum.

He pulled a black card from his wallet and held it out. "Juliana, I know you're upset. This has no limit. Buy whatever you want. Let's not ruin our relationship over something so trivial."

Just then, Sienna knocked on the door. She held a thick project proposal, her face a mask of earnest professionalism.

"Sorry to interrupt," she said, "but I need to discuss an urgent business matter with you both."

She placed the proposal on my desk, pointing to one of the pages. "To ensure the success of the project I just salvaged, we need to build a high-end private tennis court to entertain our clients' families."

Her finger traced a line across the estate's floor plan, landing precisely on the memorial garden in my backyard.

"According to our assessment, this is the ideal location. The position is perfect, and the space is currently underutilized."

Sienna looked up at me, her voice dripping with faux sympathy. "Juliana, I understand this is emotional for you. But for a multi-hundred-million-dollar project, a tennis court is a vital amenity. That space... it's just sitting there, empty."

"Absolutely not," I cut her off.

My voice was ice, and the air in the room crackled with tension.

A flicker of annoyance crossed Sienna's face before she smoothed it over and turned to Brett for backup.

Brett stepped in front of me, blocking my view of her. "Juliana, be rational. This isn't just a garden; it's a business decision that affects the company's future."

His tone was one of condescending patience. "You can't obstruct corporate progress just because you're being emotional. Business comes first."

White-hot rage tore through me, and my hand flew up, cracking hard across his face.

The sharp sound echoed in the stunned silence.

I stared at him, my voice low and dangerous. "I dare you, Brett. I dare anyone to touch that garden. They will pay."

My gaze was like a razor. "That garden is for my child. It is not a bargaining chip for your business deals."

That night, Brett stormed into our bedroom, his face a mask of fury.

His eyes were bloodshot. "Juliana, what the hell is your game?"

He waved a sheaf of printed documents in his hand. "Why were the confidential minutes from my meeting with Sienna today sent to our biggest competitor?"

I was baffled. "What minutes? I have no idea what you're talking about."

Brett's face twisted into a sneer. "Don't play innocent! The IT department traced the leak directly to your personal computer!"

His voice rose, reason abandoning him. "Maybe it's a blessing our child didn't survive! Not with a paranoid, vengeful mother like you! No wonder you miscarried. Maybe the baby just didn't want to be born to you!"

His words struck me like a physical blow.

My world shattered. How could the man I’d loved so deeply say something so monstrous? An icy dread, colder than anything I’d ever felt, crept up my spine.

My knees felt weak. "Say that again."

My voice trembled, but my eyes were sharp. "Brett, what did you just say?"

Blinded by fury, Brett didn't hesitate. "You heard me! Maybe our child died because it didn't want a mother like you!"

My heart tore itself to pieces. This man, the one I had once loved beyond measure, was capable of this.

"That's a lie," I said, my voice shaking despite myself. "I want to speak with your IT security department. Now."

But Brett wasn't listening. He'd already swallowed every lie Sienna fed him.

In his mind, Sienna was infallible, while his wife of a decade was now the enemy.

After the fight, Brett left again to discuss "crisis management" with Sienna.

I sat alone in the cavernous living room, drowning in loneliness and despair.

The next day, on my way home from my lawyer's office, my phone rang.

It was our estate manager, Tom, his voice frantic. "Mrs. Prescott, you need to get here! A construction crew just showed up with a bulldozer!"

Panic laced his words. "They say Mr. Prescott personally authorized them to demolish the memorial garden. I tried to stop them, but they have a permit."