Seven months pregnant, I dragged my five-year-old daughter through the baby aisle, whispering, “Just one more blanket, sweetheart.” Then I saw them—my husband and his mistress—laughing like I was a bad joke. She leaned in, eyes cold. “Still pretending you matter?” My daughter clutched my hand. The slap came fast—bright, ringing, humiliating. My husband just folded his arms and watched. I swallowed my scream and smiled. Because across the store, my billionaire father had seen everything… and their hell was about to begin.
“Oh, stop it, you’re terrible,” a woman’s voice purred—slick, expensive, and utterly familiar. I peered through the gap between the stroller boxes. There, standing in the aisle of premium imported cribs, was my husband. He wasn’t wearing his frantic, overworked expression. He was wearing a Brioni suit—one I knew we couldn’t afford—and he was smiling…
