It was the day before Christmas Eve, and Grant had finally agreed to file the marriage license. But on the way to City Hall, he suddenly slammed on the brakes. I looked at him, my brow furrowed in confusion. He calmly lit a cigarette, the smoke curling between us. “We can’t do this, Ainsley,” he said, his voice flat. “My ex-wife is back, and she brought the kid. I quietly remarried her yesterday to get Zane’s health insurance and custody situation sorted.” My face went white, but Grant simply flicked the ash off his cigarette, his tone radiating self-justification. “It’s a paper marriage, Ainsley. It’s only for Zane. You’ve always been so mature and reasonable; I know you understand.” “The wedding is still on, you’ll wear the ring, and nothing between us has changed—except for that piece of paper.” Looking at the arrogant, utterly unfamiliar man sitting next to me, my stomach lurched. It was a dizzying, sickening roll. I had been about to tell him we were having the child we’d both longed for. But now, he didn’t deserve to know. And this marriage, the sham of it, was over before it began. ... I took a deep, shaky breath, fighting down the wave of nausea. My voice was a dry rasp. “So, Grant…” “When you walked into that courthouse yesterday, did you think, even for one second, that you were supposed to be walking into the same place with me today?” Grant put out the cigarette, his expression tight, as if genuinely surprised by my question. “Ainsley, don’t make this complicated.” “Camille and I were a business merger, nothing more. We divorced because the feeling wasn’t there. This quick remarriage was the fastest way to handle Zane’s complicated legal issues. You’re the one who always said you hate unnecessary drama.” I used to go out of my way to keep him from worrying about work—always focused on the positive. He called me understanding; he called me low-maintenance. Now, my kindness was the knife he was twisting into me. I laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. “So, to avoid ‘unnecessary drama,’ I’m supposed to simply accept that my fiancé is now, legally, someone else’s husband, days before our wedding?” “Grant, what am I to you?” Grant reached for me, but I pulled away. His hand hung awkwardly in the air. He sighed, pulling his hand back to his side. “Ainsley, five years. Are you really going to let five years of love crumble over a technicality?” “You know how I’ve been with you. I love you. I want to build a life with you. That hasn’t changed.” I remembered a year ago, when we’d passed an upscale baby boutique. He’d pulled me inside and held a tiny pair of pink leather shoes, completely captivated. “Ainsley, as soon as we get married, we have to try for a baby right away.” “I can’t wait to see a little version of you calling me Dad.” The hope then had been real. The betrayal now was just as real. I took a breath, my hand instinctively resting on my still-flat belly. I asked, my voice barely a whisper, “And the child? Once the papers are done, then what? You’re just going to keep this legal arrangement indefinitely?” Seeing a glimmer of softening in my tone, Grant relaxed. He spoke with the easy confidence of a man who knows he’s winning. “Zane’s immune system is fragile, and Camille can’t manage his specialist care alone.” “I’ll set them up in the Brooklyn brownstone, hire a full-time caregiver, and I’ll go over once or twice a week.” “Ainsley, you have my word: the majority of my time will be with you, and with our home.” Our home? I chewed on those words, the taste of them metallic and sharp. How does a married man offer another woman a home? His phone rang then. It was his mother. Grant answered, his voice instantly warm. “Yes, Mom, we’re on the way. I’m bringing Ainsley over for dinner later.” He hung up, turned the car around without asking my permission, and started driving. “My mother’s health isn’t great, and you’re her favorite. Everyone knows about the wedding. You don’t want to disappoint her, do you?” I looked at his familiar profile, and a chill settled deep in my bones. For his mother’s sake, for his son’s sake, for the sake of keeping his life neatly compartmentalized. I was, yet again, left with only one acceptable option: to be the reasonable, accommodating one. The knot of acid in my stomach twisted violently. I bit down hard on my lip to stop myself from gagging. Grant’s family estate. The moment we walked in, Mrs. Sterling pulled me close, beaming. “Ainsley, darling, you’re here! Quick, Maria just finished a special batch of that imported organic tonic. Drink it while it’s warm, sweetie.” She was completely oblivious. In her mind, tomorrow was her son’s glorious day. At the dinner table, Grant played the role of the perfect husband-to-be. He peeled the shrimp, carved the roast, and poured the wine. Every action was smooth, practiced, and attentive. “Ainsley, the garlic prawns are your favorite. Have some more.” Mrs. Sterling placed a generous serving onto my plate. I forced down the rising nausea and managed a strained smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Sterling.” “Mrs. Sterling? Tomorrow you call me Mom!” she teased. Grant’s hand paused on the table, then he quickly smiled and chimed in, “That’s right, you’ll finally have to change that.” He looked at me, his eyes carrying both a warning and a desperate plea. He was betting on my kindness, betting that I wouldn’t dare break his mother’s fragile heart. After dinner, Mrs. Sterling pulled me into her study with a secretive air. She opened a heavy safe and took out a red velvet box. Inside, nestled on the satin, was a heavy, vintage platinum-and-diamond bangle—the kind that held immeasurable generational value. “Ainsley, this is the Sterling family heirloom, passed down to the wife.” She didn’t wait for my response, sliding the cold, heavy band onto my wrist. “I can see that Grant truly loves you.” “He was such a restless soul before you. You settled him, made him into a man.” Mrs. Sterling patted my hand, her eyes glistening. “Now, you two promise me you’ll make me a grandmother soon. My heart, I don’t know how long it will last…” I stared at the blinding sparkle on my wrist, my throat constricting as if plugged with cotton. The word no burned on my tongue, but I swallowed it, choking it down. My secret, the knowledge of the baby in my womb, felt impossibly heavy. The grandchild she wished for was already here. Too bad her son had, just yesterday, personally ensured that child would be born a technical bastard. Later that night, back in our penthouse, Grant was slightly tipsy. He came up behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist, his liquor-scented kisses landing on my neck. “Baby…” I went rigid, a wave of pure, physical revulsion washing over me. The acid rush returned to my throat. I pushed him away hard and ran to the bathroom, dry-heaving into the toilet. Grant followed, rubbing my back awkwardly. “What’s wrong? Did the prawns not agree with you?” I splashed cold water on my face, looking at my pale, drawn reflection in the mirror. “Grant, don’t touch me.” He froze, his face hardening. “Still making a scene? Ainsley, I thought you’d come around.” I turned, backing up against the vanity, putting as much distance between us as possible. “Grant, I need to know: in your plan, what exactly am I?” “A trophy wife you can show off but can’t legally claim? Or just a convenient accessory to help you smooth over your life?” He lit a cigarette, his expression one of mounting irritation. “I told you, I can give you everything but that paper. Company shares, properties, all my liquid assets—they’re yours.” “Camille is just a responsibility.” Always responsibility. “And what is your responsibility to me?” “What I feel for you is love!” He roared the word, sounding like a deeply aggrieved man. “Ainsley, don’t push me.” “You know how much my mother loves you. Her heart condition is real.” “If you leave me and something happens to her because of the shock… do you really want that responsibility? You’re a good woman; you care about her like a mother, right?” “And let’s not forget your father. His specialist kidney care, the exclusive palliative wing—I handle all of that. Without me, can you guarantee that level of care for him?” The veneer of love fell away, leaving behind only the cold, hard mechanics of threat and calculation. He knew my weaknesses. My kindness, my empathy, my reluctance to create a scene. These qualities he’d once praised were now the sharpest tools in his arsenal. Each word was a cut, leaving me bloody and raw. I looked at the man standing before me. Suddenly, I realized I hadn’t known him at all for the last five years. “Fine,” I heard myself say, the word flat and lifeless. “I won’t make a scene.” Grant let out a huge sigh of relief, moving toward me to hug me. “I knew it. You’re the best, Ainsley.” I stepped aside, avoiding his touch, and pointed toward the guest suite. “But I can’t look at you right now. Sleep in the guest room.” His face tightened again, but to placate me, he nodded. “Okay, fine. Get some rest.” The moment the door closed, I slid down the wall, sinking to the floor. I looked at the heavy diamond bangle on my wrist. The tears finally came, an unstoppable torrent. To reassure me and, perhaps, himself that our situation was now manageable, Grant actually suggested I meet Camille. He took me to the Brooklyn brownstone—the place where we had lived during the lean, exciting days of building his company. Now, it housed his legal wife and his child. He opened the door. The once familiar, minimalist space was now decorated in a cozy, hygge style. Camille was administering an inhaler to a little boy. She wore simple cotton loungewear, makeup-free, her hair pulled back in a casual bun. She looked up, saw me, and gave a calm, measured nod. “Come in, Ainsley. It’s a bit of a mess, but don’t worry about it.” The boy was small, maybe five or six, and he looked exactly like Grant. He hid shyly behind Camille’s legs and whispered, “Daddy.” Grant walked over naturally. He knelt to check Zane’s breathing, then got a glass of water, which he skillfully helped the boy drink, wiping the corner of his mouth. It was the practiced, ingrained familiarity of a father. I stood in the doorway, feeling like a clumsy intruder. I watched their picture of quiet domesticity. Was this the “responsibility” he claimed had no emotion attached? While Grant took Zane into the bedroom to look for a toy, Camille offered me a glass of warm water and sat across from me in the living room. “Honestly, I told Grant that this was unfair to you.” “But once he makes up his mind, there’s no changing it.” She sighed, playing the role of the world-weary sage. “Men at a certain level always want it all. They want their unshakable foundation and their exciting distraction.” “What can we do but wait for him to figure out what he actually needs?” Her words held no malice, no fire. But they subtly pushed me into the category of 'distraction'—the fleeting, temporary thrill. She, however, was the ‘responsibility,’ the one who was always there to catch him. She picked up a framed photo—a family portrait of her, Grant, and Zane. She wiped a speck of dust off the glass. “Even when we were divorced, he never let me throw this away.” “Some things are just in the bones, Ainsley.” I looked at the piercing sight of that family photo. Then I looked at the cold, heavy bangle on my wrist. The absurdity of it all was overwhelming. I said nothing, simply standing up to leave. Camille didn’t try to stop me. She only said, her voice light and airy behind me, “Don’t blame him, Ainsley. And don’t break yourself. Give it a few years. You’ll get used to it.” Get used to it? Get used to this disgusting triad? The wedding preparations continued, and Grant seemed to truly believe I had surrendered. He was gentle, attentive, and even a little desperate to please. “Ainsley, what about this main gown? It’s a bespoke piece flown in from Paris.” “And this ring, I had them add another carat.” He was desperately trying to fill the black hole of his lie with material goods. He thought enough money could purchase dignity. He took me to the studio to pick up our massive wedding portrait. In the photo, we were kissing by the ocean. I’d thought I was the happiest woman alive. Now, that smile felt like a grotesque mask. Grant pointed at the photo, his eyes shining with false pride. “Ainsley, look how perfect we are.” “I’ll devote my life to you. I’ll put the world at your feet.” I looked at his earnest, lying face, and the nausea returned with full force. “I need the ladies’ room.” I rushed into the back, dry-heaving over the porcelain. Nothing came up but burning bile. The ultrasound image in my wallet—the one I’d memorized—was a reminder that my pregnancy was nearly three months along. When I came out, I saw Grant with his back to me, speaking quietly on the phone. My hearing was always sharp. “...Stop, Camille, I can’t talk right now.” “Zane has a fever again? Did you give him the medication?” “Fine, fine, I’m coming over. Don’t cry. I’ll pick up the cupcakes from that bakery he loves.” It was Camille. Even at this critical moment—as we stood in front of our wedding portrait—she could use her child as a lever to pull him away. He hung up and turned, his eyes flicking with panic when he saw me. He quickly masked it, rushing over with an apologetic expression. “Urgent company crisis, Ainsley. A major client just landed unexpectedly. I have to go smooth things over.” I didn’t call him out. I simply looked at him. “Grant, do you remember what day it is?” He paused, clearly blank, a slight panic in his eyes. I prompted him gently. “It’s my birthday.” His face crumpled with instant guilt. He scrambled to salvage the moment. “Oh, Ainsley, I am so sorry. I’ve been completely swamped with work.” “What do you want? We’ll go buy it right now.” He reached for my hand again. I stepped back, shaking my head. “It’s fine. You have an urgent crisis, don’t you? Go.” He thought I was being the understanding Ainsley he’d come to rely on. He breathed a sigh of relief, leaned in, and kissed my forehead, his voice falsely bright. “I’ll make it up to you tonight. Be a good girl, wait for me.” Then he snatched his keys and hurried out the door. His retreating back held not a single shred of hesitation. The studio was empty, save for me and the giant wedding portrait, which stood mockingly in the center. I walked over to the corner, where the workers had left a small sledgehammer. I picked it up, testing the weight. It was heavy. Just like the stone that had been pressing down on my heart for the last five years. I looked at the woman in the photo—the one who believed he loved her—and whispered, “Happy Birthday, Ainsley Hayes.” The next second. I lifted the hammer and brought it down with every ounce of strength I had. The sound of shattering glass was a high-pitched scream in the empty room. Shards flew everywhere, cutting my legs, but I felt nothing. Grant’s face in the photo was a jagged mess. My own smiling face was splintered into a thousand pieces. I wrenched the heirloom bangle off my wrist. I dropped it into the pile of broken glass. Then, I took the crumpled ultrasound from my bag—the one with creases from where my fingers had worried it for weeks—and calmly placed it, face-down, on top of the bracelet. Finally, I pulled out my phone and dialed a number. “Faye, I need you to schedule the earliest D&C appointment for me tomorrow morning.” “As soon as possible.”
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