To Lay Ruin at the Child's Grave

My husband, Ronan Callahan, the Don of Chicago's largest Irish crime family, violated our wedding vows. He cheated on me with Scarlett Rhodes, the daughter of a rival real estate tycoon, while I was pregnant with his heir.

To appease me and give my Keaton family a plausible story, he claimed he’d broken things off with Scarlett.

My parents pleaded with me, "Now that Ronan has come back to you, for the sake of both our families, don't make a scene."

From that day forward, a crippling mysophobia consumed me. Any form of physical contact would make me gag uncontrollably.

Unable to take any medication, my only recourse was a compulsive need for sanitation. I demanded that everything be sterilized before it came near me.

Ronan, a man notorious for his volatile temper, disinfected himself three times a day for me. If he needed to approach me, he would speak from a safe distance of six feet.

Every time he entered my bedroom, he had to change into sterilized clothes. No matter how tedious the process, he never once complained.

"It's okay, Aveline. I was the one who broke my vow first."

But when I ordered Ronan to wash his hands one more time, he finally shattered. He smashed his whiskey glass on the floor in front of me.

"Enough! What man hasn't made a mistake? Do you have to humiliate me like this? Am I that filthy in your eyes?"

In retaliation, Ronan deliberately invited a rowdy biker gang to our meticulously designed lakeside estate. He saw it as a punishment for my obsession with cleanliness, planning to use my pregnancy to force my submission.

Under the relentless stress, a sharp pain tore through my abdomen. Soon, blood began to seep down my inner thighs, soaking my skirt.

But in that same moment, I felt a strange and startling wave of relief.

"Let's get a divorce, Ronan."

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1

I curled up on the expensive Persian rug, the damp warmth beneath my skirt slowly leeching the heat from my body. The air, a sickening mixture of Ronan's cologne and the smoke of cheap cigars, made my stomach churn.

The night I found out I was pregnant, I’d burst into his study, ecstatic. That’s when I found him with Scarlett Rhodes—my husband and the daughter of a rival real estate tycoon, tangled together on his desk.

The sight of their writhing bodies repulsed me.

From that moment on, any physical touch made me nauseous. I would compulsively scrub my hands, take frantic showers, and refuse all contact with anything that hadn't been sterilized.

Ronan blamed it on pregnancy hormones. He indulged me, playing along with his charade of atonement—until tonight, when he finally tired of the act.

"Look at you—you're a lunatic!" he roared in the living room, letting the biker gang run wild. Then, he grabbed a greasy hamburger and hurled it at me.

"I want you to see that this world is filthy!"

In that instant, a sharp pain tore through my abdomen. Ronan watched me collapse, wailing in agony as my white silk gown stained crimson, but he didn't even flinch.

"Stop acting, Aveline," he said coldly. "The baby isn't that fragile."

He stepped around the pool of blood, shoved the door open, and strode out without a backward glance. The door slammed shut with a deafening crack. The rowdy crowd quickly vanished, leaving only chaos in their wake.

With trembling hands, I dialed my private doctor's emergency number, not Ronan's. "Save me... no, it's too late…"

I sobbed into the phone, my voice cracking.

As I waited for help, my thoughts began to blur. In a daze, I found myself back on our wedding day. In that ancient church overlooking Lake Michigan, Ronan had knelt and kissed my fingertips.

Before the priest, before God, he had sworn to be faithful. The veil blurred my vision; I couldn't tell if what I felt was love, or just the weight of a family alliance.