Chapter 1Left With Nothing But My Son

On our third wedding anniversary, I came home early to find my husband, Donovan, in bed with another woman.

It was the tenth time.

But I didn’t scream or cry. I just quietly closed the door for them.

A month later, he threw the divorce papers on the table in front of me.

“What have you ever done for the Ashford family besides produce a son?” he sneered. “The girl wants a real home with me. Sign it.”

I looked into his cold, indifferent eyes, my own voice betraying no emotion. “Fine. But I get our son. I don’t want a dime of your money.”

In the end, I gave up everything, walking away with nothing but my son.

Everyone said I was insane to walk away from the Ashford fortune.

Even Donovan asked contemptuously, “You’re a fertility specialist. How in the world are you going to support him?”

What none of them knew was that Donovan Ashford had a severe case of male infertility.

And that I, with my unusually high fertility, was the only woman in the world who could ever bear his child.

The Ashford family’s century-old empire would have only one heir: my son.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, the master bedroom door opened.

A girl emerged, wrapped in nothing but Donovan’s white dress shirt. It was Sophie, Donovan’s newest mistress, a scholarship student he was sponsoring.

She froze when she saw me, then lifted her chin, her posture radiating the arrogance of a woman who believed she was the true lady of the house.

I just nodded. “Use the side door. The paparazzi are camped out front.”

She bit her lip and shot me a glare before scurrying away.

Donovan appeared a moment later, a towel slung loosely around his hips. He glanced at our son, Noah, asleep in my arms, then back at me, a playful smirk touching his lips.

“So well-behaved today.”

I gently placed the sleeping Noah back in his crib, tucking him in.

Donovan lit a cigarette. “Vivienne, you should always be this sensible.”

His face was a blur in the smoke. For a second, I was transported back four years, to a night just like this. He had stood drenched on the street below my apartment, holding takeout from that little place I loved. Rain dripped from the ends of his hair.

“Dr. Rowe, I’ve been pursuing you for three months. Give me a chance?”

His eyes were so bright then, filled with a sincerity I would never see in them again.

Donovan’s voice pulled me back to the present.

“You haven’t forgotten why we got married, have you?” he said coolly. “I was drunk that night, forgot to take precautions. You got lucky, hit the jackpot on the first try.”

He stepped closer, his fingers tilting my chin up. “The Ashfords value bloodline above all else. Otherwise, a little doctor like you… how would you have ever married into this family?”

“I know,” I said, turning my head to escape his touch.

His eyes hardened. He pulled his hand back and took another drag from his cigarette. “Good that you know. Just be Mrs. Ashford, raise our son well, and I won’t treat you poorly.” He paused. “But Vivienne, don’t ever expect me to be faithful to just one woman.”

“I understand,” I murmured, lowering my gaze.

He smiled, satisfied. As he turned to leave, he added, “Oh, and my parents’ anniversary party is tomorrow. Wear the champagne-colored dress.”

The door clicked shut.

I stood frozen for a long time. Only when my legs began to feel numb did I slowly walk back to the crib. Noah rolled over, his little lips puckered in a sweet dream.

There was so much Donovan didn’t know.

For instance, I was the one who altered his pre-marital medical report. As his primary physician, I had the highest level of access. His semen analysis clearly stated: “Severe Asthenospermia. Probability of natural conception is extremely low.”

I quietly deleted that page.

I loved him then. Loved him so much I couldn’t bear for him to know he was flawed.

It was only later that I learned from my mentor that I had a rare condition myself: hyper-fertility. Without me, Donovan Ashford would have likely died childless.

I gained forty pounds during the pregnancy, and that’s when he stopped coming home. The first time, it was the scent of unfamiliar perfume on his shirt. I confronted him, and he shoved me away in irritation. “Vivienne, can you stop being so neurotic?”

Then came the lipstick stains, then the long hairs, and finally, he just started bringing them home.

I cried, I screamed, I fought. Until six months ago, when I caught him with his third mistress. He had pulled on his pants, bored, and grabbed my chin. “Vivienne, you need to know your place. You got through the doors of this family because your womb did its job. Beyond that, you are nothing.”

In that instant, something inside me shattered completely.

After that, I stopped fighting. I stopped making scenes. I would even make myself scarce when he brought women home.

It wasn’t resignation.

It was the sudden, chilling realization of the rules of the game.

I leaned down and gently kissed Noah’s soft forehead. He smelled faintly of milk, the only clean scent left in this house.

I whispered against his ear, my voice as soft as a sigh, “Patience, my love.”

“Everything the Ashfords own will be ours one day. It’s only a matter of time.”