Chapter 2He Wanted Heirs I Gave Him Ruin

Once the affair was confirmed, I suppressed the volcano of rage inside me and didn’t say a word to Trevor. His infidelity was a fact. Screaming, crying, throwing things—none of it would change what he had done. What I needed to figure out now was how to maximize my own interests in the coming divorce. In the world of adults, self-interest has to come first.

I found a quiet hotel bar downtown and spent the entire afternoon replaying the fifteen years of our marriage in my head.

It was Trevor who had wanted to be child-free in the first place. I found it grimly ironic that he was the one to regret it.

In the early years, when we were starting our company, we had nothing. No foundation, no connections. Even our families were less than supportive. To say we struggled would be an understatement. We ate, slept, and breathed that business, pouring every ounce of ourselves into it. And now, after all that sacrifice, the moment we could finally breathe, the first thing he does is find a younger woman to give him the children he told me he never wanted.

The bitterness of it was like acid in my throat.

I spent that afternoon on the phone with three different lawyers. The consensus was bleak. We never signed a prenuptial or postnuptial agreement. Even though Trevor was the one who cheated, forcing him to walk away with nothing would be nearly impossible unless he agreed to it.

That path was a dead end. I needed another plan.

Just then, my phone buzzed. It was Trevor. He was asking why I wasn't home yet.

I glanced at the time. It was after ten. For the past few years, despite having a secret second family, he had maintained a flawless facade. Aside from the occasional late night for a "client dinner," he was always home by ten. That was one of the main reasons I'd never suspected a thing.

I’d forgotten a simple truth: a man who truly wants to cheat doesn't need much time.

By the time I got home, it was almost eleven. Trevor was on the sofa, scrolling through his phone. When he heard the door open, he looked up. For a man in his forties, he was in good shape—no gut, no bald spot. He had that mature, steady look that time can bestow. But I saw it. The flicker of his thumb as he instinctively locked his phone and placed it face down on the coffee table.

It was a tiny detail I would have never noticed before. Now, it was magnified, glaring at me under a spotlight.

Once suspicion takes root, every shadow looks like a monster.

He walked over to me, his expression as normal as ever. He took my purse from my hand, his smile gentle. "Hey, you're late. Long day?"

For a second, I was stunned. How could a person do something so fundamentally destructive to a marriage and still not show a single flicker of guilt? For four, almost five years, he had hidden this from me. The man I shared a bed with had a mind so meticulous, so duplicitous, it made my teeth ache.

He must have noticed my silence, because his expression shifted to one of concern. "What's wrong?"

I looked away, forcing myself to remain calm. I shook my head. "Nothing. Just tired."

After more than twenty years together, Trevor knew me too well. He could read the slightest shift in my posture, the smallest change in my tone.

But the same was true for me.

I knew this wasn't an accident, him getting caught. It wasn’t a moment of carelessness. He was simply done hiding. Our company was stable, a well-oiled machine. I had weathered all the storms of our startup years with him, and now, someone else was ready to step in and enjoy the calm seas and sunny skies.

On what grounds?

I managed a few more noncommittal responses, careful not to betray any of the turmoil inside me. Trevor, likely still unaware of what I knew, acted completely normal, though his glances at his phone were a little too frequent.

For a middle-aged couple, a quiet, predictable life can be a blessing. But some people can't stand the quiet.

A wave of raw impulse surged through me. I wanted to scream, to throw a lamp, to rake my nails across his handsome, lying face. I wanted to demand, hysterically, why he had betrayed me, betrayed us. For a fleeting, ugly moment, I even wanted to hurt him back in the same way, to have an affair of my own.

And then, just as quickly, the wave receded, leaving me cold. The person I had been in that moment felt terrifyingly unfamiliar.

Betrayal deserves punishment, but you don't punish someone else by setting yourself on fire.

Trevor was already rotten. I refused to become rotten too.