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.

By the time the doctor arrived, the blood on the floor had begun to congeal. His eyes fell on the crimson stain soaking the rug, and he shook his head grimly. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Callahan… the heir is gone."

"I know."

I closed my eyes as a single, cold tear slid down my cheek.

Because of my mysophobia, I refused general anesthesia. I was awake for the entire procedure, feeling the cold instruments scrape away what was left of my baby inside me. The physical pain was nothing compared to the heartbreak that drowned me.

A five-month-old fetus—a tiny, budding life—had been torn from me. His heart had stopped beating; he could no longer hear the rhythm of mine. He never even had the chance to open his eyes.

"Should I have him sent to the Callahan family cemetery?" the doctor asked cautiously.

"No," I said after a long silence. "That's Ronan's place. It's too dirty."

I wouldn't let my child lie next to a traitor. In a quiet corner of the estate garden, beneath a memorial sculpture I had designed, I held a solitary farewell for him. No priest, no flowers, only endless silence.

All the while, Ronan's Consigliere, Finn O'Connell, called his phone relentlessly, but it went unanswered. He had vanished.

I pictured him somewhere comfortable, gloating, certain that this tragedy would bring me to my knees.

He thought I would come crawling back, but some things, once shattered, can never be mended. That was a lesson he had yet to learn.

As the first shovel of dirt covered the small memorial box, a realization struck me. My mysophobia wasn't madness; it was a shield.

In this world of lies, violence, betrayal, and crime, it was the only defense I had—the only thing that made me feel remotely safe.

I stood and brushed the dirt from my skirt. This time, I didn't rush to sterilize my hands.

I took out my phone, bypassing the family lawyers who always pushed for reconciliation, and contacted a top attorney specializing in hostile takeovers.

"Prepare a letter of intent for an acquisition of the Callahan Group."

In the sterile hospital room, the shrill ring of the telephone shattered the silence. It was my father, Arthur Keaton. He didn't waste a second.

"You were too reckless, Aveline!" his voice boomed through the receiver. "Ronan is the Don of the Callahan family! You know men like him have a temper. What you did jeopardizes our entire alliance!"

In his eyes, my dignity, my life, was dust compared to the family's interests. I leaned back against the pale hospital pillow and stared at the oppressive gray sky.

"Dad…" I interrupted calmly. "The child you were counting on—the one meant to solidify our family's alliance—is gone."

The line went silent, filled only with the faint hum of static, as if mourning the silent tragedy.

Shortly after, my uncles stormed into the room. They wore plastered-on looks of false sympathy, but their eyes were all fixed on my now-flat stomach.

"What a shame… it was a boy."

"How could you be so careless, Aveline?"

"Ronan may have been wrong, but how could you, as a mother, fail to protect your own child?"

Every word was an accusation. To them, I hadn't lost a child; I'd lost a commodity.

"Don't worry," one uncle said, patting my shoulder in a hollow gesture of comfort. "We'll make him pay. Besides, you're still young. There will be other children."

I looked coldly at these men steeped in greed. "He doesn't need to pay for anything."

I slowly sat up, my gaze sweeping over them. "I'm ending this marriage."

A stunned silence fell over the room. My mother-in-law, Moira Callahan, who had been lurking in the corner, muttered, "A disgrace to the family. Can't even keep a child, and now she wants a divorce?"

My father-in-law, Patrick Callahan, scowled and dialed Ronan's satellite phone. This time, it connected. The background was chaotic.

"What now?" Ronan snapped, irritated.

Patrick switched the phone to speaker and shoved it in front of me. "You tell him."

I stared at the glowing screen. "The baby's gone."

A pause. Then Ronan's roar cut through the silence. "Enough, Aveline! You'd lie about that just to make me submit? I already cut things off with Scarlett!"

"I've practically locked myself away to prove my loyalty to you! Why are you still hung up on the past? Do you have any idea how much crap I'm dealing with out here? Can't you be a little more considerate?"

He never asked how I was. He never asked where our son was buried.

I thought of the past five months—the nights I’d stared at the ceiling until dawn, unable to take medication for my depression because of the baby.

Meanwhile, he slept in the next room, where I sometimes heard the faint laughter of other women.

Tears welled in my eyes. Just then, my parents arrived. They didn't offer a hug; they stood with my uncles, a united front against me.

"You want a divorce? Don't even think about it!" my mother, Eleanor, scolded. "If you dare leave him, I'll have you removed from the Keaton Group's board of directors!"

This was the family I had sacrificed everything to protect.

A white-hot rage surged through me. I snatched a water glass from the bedside table and hurled it against the wall. Shards flew, and water sprayed across the floor.

My uncles recoiled, staring at me in shock.

I stood amidst the wreckage, my eyes burning. "Then remove me! From this day on, my life is my own! No one will ever control me again!"