Chapter 1My Wife Surrogated For Her Ex

When my wife helped her drunk childhood sweetheart into our apartment, I was lying in bed, doubled over from excruciating stomach cramps.

She didn’t spare me a single glance. Instead, she guided him straight to our bedroom and laid him down across our marital bed. Then, with a tenderness she hadn't shown me in years, she took a warm cloth and gently wiped his face.

"Cathy, give me a hug..." he slurred, his voice thick with liquor.

A soft, genuine smile lit up my wife's face—a smile I hadn't seen directed at me in months.

Without warning, she grabbed my arm and yanked me out of bed.

"I need to stay in here and take care of him tonight," she said, her voice flat and matter-of-fact. "Go sleep in the guest room. And tomorrow morning, make some seafood chowder for breakfast. He loves it."

She had completely forgotten that I have a severe, potentially life-threatening seafood allergy. Even a trace of cross-contamination could send me into anaphylactic shock.

I clutched my burning abdomen, fighting the pain. "Did you get my medication? You said you’d pick it up on your way home."

She rolled her eyes, her impatience sharp and stinging. "It’s just your usual stomach pain. Stop being so delicate. Figure it out yourself."

In that quiet, humiliating moment, the last piece of my devotion crumbled into dust.

A week ago, she had casually announced her intention to act as a surrogate—to carry a frozen embryo created by him and his deceased girlfriend. Deep down, I knew our marriage had already entered its final countdown.

Later, she would end up on her knees, sobbing and begging me to love her the way I used to, to cherish her again.

Too bad. Some fractures can never be mended.

* * *

This wasn't the first time my wife, Catherine, had brought Dean home drunk.

But it was the first time she dropped all pretense of respect for me, carrying another man straight into the bed we shared as husband and wife.

When she pulled me up from the mattress, a sharp, white-hot blade of pain shot through my gut.

"Dean drank way too much," she instructed, her eyes fixed on him. "Go make some honey tea to sober him up. Put extra honey in it. He likes it sweet."

I forced down the rising tide of fury in my throat. "If you're so worried about him being too drunk to take care of himself, take him home. His parents can look after him."

Catherine turned and glared at me. "His parents are in their fifties! How could you be so heartless as to disturb them this late?"

I stared at her, my jaw tightening. She worried endlessly about his parents, who were barely past fifty. Yet she seemed to have conveniently forgotten how my mother, nearly seventy, had traveled from her quiet rural home to take care of her when she was down with a fever last winter.

And what did Catherine do in return? She criticized my mother's cooking, complained about her habits, and even confiscated the modest living allowance I gave her, claiming a woman living in a small town had her own garden and didn't need a single cent of my money.

"Are you planning on staying right beside him all night?" I asked, my voice deadly quiet.

Suddenly aware that Dean had wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close, Catherine looked momentarily flustered. She patted his hand gently. "Dean, let go."

Dean slowly opened his eyes, staring up at her with glossy, unfocused eyes. "Babe... remember back in the day? Whenever I got drunk, we used to cuddle and kiss..."

Catherine cast a nervous glance at me. "He... he's out of his mind right now. He doesn't know what he's saying. Don't take it personally."

I let out a cold, humorless laugh. "So you're just going to spend the night curled up in his arms?"

Catherine hurriedly pulled herself free from his grip and took a step toward me. "When he drinks, he turns into a helpless child. I can't just leave him like this."

I pressed my palm against my side, swallowing the bitter taste in my mouth. "He's a grown man with two working legs. He doesn't need another man's wife mothering him. I'm moving him to the guest room right now."

Before my hand could even brush Dean's shoulder, Catherine shoved me back hard.

"Connor, I married you, I didn't sell my soul to you!" her voice cracked with sudden rage. "I can spend time with whoever I want, and you don't get a say. Dean is sensitive—he can't sleep in a foreign bed. Stop throwing a childish tantrum!"

As if on cue, Dean pulled her back into his embrace. The movement was smooth, practiced, and intimate, as though they had done it a thousand times before.

"Babe," Dean murmured, resting his face against her shoulder. "Our bed is so comfortable. With you here, I know I'm going to have a wonderful night."

"Our bed?"

My heart sank into a dark, bottomless pit.

Before we got married, I had offered to buy a brand-new master bedroom suite. Catherine had insisted on bringing the bed from her old rental apartment, claiming she was used to the mattress.

Now I understood. It wasn't about comfort. That mattress was saturated with memories of her and Dean.

I took a deep, shaky breath, about to speak, when Dean groaned again, clutching his stomach. "Babe... it hurts."

I watched in stunned silence as my wife pulled a blister pack of prescription stomach medication straight out of her coat pocket.

Dean offered her a lazy, triumphant smile. "I knew it. You never forget how my stomach acts up when I drink. All these years, and you still keep my meds on you."

Catherine seemed to realize how damning it looked. Her expression shifted, and she looked up at me nervously. "I... it's just an old habit. It doesn't mean anything. We've been broken up for years. We're just friends now."

My lips curved into a bitter line. "If you're just friends, you won't mind giving those pills to your husband, right? Seeing as my stomach—"

Before I could finish my sentence, Catherine pushed a pill directly into Dean's mouth, handing him a glass of water.

The sight felt like a physical blow to my chest.

Love and indifference really were that obvious, wasn't it?

"Your stomach pain is a chronic thing," Catherine said without looking at me. "You can handle it. Dean is different. His pain tolerance is incredibly low—he suffers terribly even with a mild ache."

My hand came down heavy on the nightstand, sending a sharp clap echoing through the room. "Catherine, I am not noble enough to share my wife with another man. You need to decide right now—it's either him or me."

Catherine stormed up to me, her hand swinging wildly through the air.

"SLAP."