Chapter 1He Traded Our Unborn Child For His Mistress

Everyone knew it was a sweet deal to be the side piece of Preston Thorne.

I, his wife, was the reason. I didn't just ensure his mistresses received a top-tier benefits package with platinum healthcare and generous trust funds; I even arranged for regular overseas retreats and exclusive medical checkups. People joked that catching Preston Thorne’s eye was like landing a C-suite position in the infidelity market. Naturally, he became the most coveted man among young, ambitious women in our circles.

But this time, the girl he fixated on, a young woman named Summer, refused to be bought. She was fiercely devoted to her long-time, penniless boyfriend.

The night before Preston planned to use his power to coerce her, I initiated intimacy with him, a desperate attempt to delay him, to buy her time to escape.

The next morning, Summer was gone. Preston discovered my sabotage, and in a rage, he had me committed to a private psychiatric facility.

He stood over me in that sterile room, his expression terrifyingly calm, as he issued his final warning.

"Kin," he said, using the nickname I loved, "just promise me you'll stop interfering, and I can have you back home. You'll resume your life as Mrs. Thorne, with every luxury and privilege that entails."

Finally, I gave a soft nod.

I had just learned, before I was taken, that my brother, Jared, had lost everything in a bad investment.

He was drowning in debt. Only with Preston’s sudden capital injection had he avoided bankruptcy and disgrace.

For my brother, I had to stop fighting. I had to disappear.

* * *

The driver had just picked me up from the facility when a devastating pile-up occurred on the highway.

The car flipped. The driver was instantly unconscious. I was severely injured.

As the paramedics rushed to the scene, I surfaced briefly through the agonizing pain. Even in that state, my hand instinctively fumbled for my phone to call Preston.

The line rang for a long time before it was answered. I swallowed the coppery blood pooling in my throat and managed to gasp, "Preston, I..."

His voice, when it came, was laced with irritation.

"Didn't I send the car for you? I told you I'm busy. Kinsley, be sensible, okay?"

The earpiece suddenly burst with chaotic noise. Then, a familiar voice cut through the static.

It was Summer’s despairing scream: "Preston Thorne, do what you want with me, but why would you hurt him?"

Preston’s reply was low and even, yet it sent a chill colder than any ice through me.

"Summer, I warned you. If you dared to accept his proposal, I’d ensure he spends the rest of his life in a wheelchair."

So, the fragile, pure ideal he was so keen to protect was named Summer.

I suddenly remembered why her voice was so familiar. It was the same frantic pitch I’d heard that first night I discovered his infidelity, the night I smashed every valuable object in our penthouse.

Preston always managed to push people past their breaking point.

Over the phone, Summer was weeping, begging him to leave her boyfriend alone.

As I finally lost consciousness, her desperate pleas shifted.

"Please, be gentle..."

Her sobs of rage melted into fragmented, tiny gasps of pleasure.

I woke up to find Preston sitting on a lounge chair nearby, casually scrolling on his phone.

He noticed my gaze.

He hesitated, then reached out a tentative hand, as if to check my temperature.

I turned my head away. "I'm fine," I rasped.

Preston scoffed, his expression hardening, and he withdrew his hand instantly.

"Kinsley, you’ve just come back, and you pull this stunt? Don’t you think it’s time to rein it in?"

My brain seized up. A stunt?

"I’ve told you countless times," he continued, "no one will ever threaten your position. You are, and always will be, my only wife. What benefit is there in fighting with a girl fresh out of college, getting yourself into this state?"

He thought the horrific accident was a pathetic attempt to compete with Summer. A move for attention.

I opened my mouth, but the truth felt utterly meaningless, stripped of all weight.

"I apologize. There won’t be a next time."

I didn't argue. There was nothing left to say.

Preston seemed satisfied by my capitulation.

My brother had called that morning to tell me Preston had arranged the funds to pay off his next installment.

See? I just had to be invisible, to know my place, and Preston would solve all our problems.

"If you're miserable, Kin, you should go. Get a divorce. I’ll figure out the money."

My arm ached from holding the phone.

I knew the truth: the entire Thorne portfolio—cars, property, everything—had been seized and auctioned. The massive debt was still a gaping hole.

Jared, who once lived in a two-thousand-square-foot river-view penthouse, had been beaten by debt collectors and was now in a damp, shadowy basement. It had taken three days for his life to collapse.

I heard Preston had found him curled up on a tiny cot, pale, with blood on his lips. His blanket didn't even cover his feet. A container of untouched microwave pasta sat on the floor.

We were utterly defeated, completely cornered.

Now, Preston offered the car, the house, the money. All he asked was for me to be blind, to be a ghost who enabled his beautiful romance with the ideal girl.

Given our situation, how could I refuse?

I managed a weak smile. "I’m not miserable. I’m just being blind. I can do that."

After my release from the hospital, I attempted to become the perfect, compliant wife.

I stopped asking about Preston’s whereabouts or spending habits.

When Preston needed a ride home, drunk after a business dinner, I gave the chauffeur Summer's number.

When he mentioned a craving for the seafood bisque I used to make, I routinely called Summer and asked her to deliver it.

When he needed custom cufflinks matched to a new suit, I told Summer to contact his private tailor.

...

Three months into this routine, Preston did something unusual: he called to say he was coming home for dinner.