From Midland Wife to Port City Queen

From Midland Wife to Port City Queen

Xia Luowei

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The tiny plus sign on my pregnancy test was supposed to be the culmination of six years of IVF, a symbol of hope. But then, a notification flashed across my phone screen: Chloe Bishop, my husband Mark' s executive assistant. Her Instagram story showed Mark, my husband of almost six years, tenderly cutting steak for her. Her caption: "My boss is the sweetest... I'd do anything for him! 😉 #BestBoss" The date stamp? Last night, celebrating "3 Years!" Three years. We'd been married for almost six. The nausea intensified, but it wasn't just morning sickness; it was pure disgust. Mark' s call, dismissive, praising Chloe and her "lifesaving" efficiency, sealed it. He called me "dramatic." He was praising his mistress to his wife, who just found out she was pregnant with his child after years of heartbreaking treatments. The baby I' d fought so hard for, his baby, was conceived in a life built on his lie. His betrayal was blatant, then aggressive. Chloe slid into my apartment with a key during a blizzard, cozying up to him. She sent me a suggestive photo, then faked a frantic call about a "boyfriend" and a "private suite." On our sixth wedding anniversary, Mark abandoned me in my black dress for Chloe' s manufactured crisis, her fake pregnancy and suicide threat. How could he be so blind? So utterly, completely heartless? My quiet life had become a very loud, very ugly lie. It wasn't surprising anymore; it was just... final. But I wasn't just Ellie anymore. I was Eleanor Hayes. I signed the divorce papers, got the abortion, and left him a note with a rejected diamond ring. Then, I boarded a flight back to Port City, ready to unleash the true power he never knew I possessed.

Introduction

The tiny plus sign on my pregnancy test was supposed to be the culmination of six years of IVF, a symbol of hope.

But then, a notification flashed across my phone screen: Chloe Bishop, my husband Mark' s executive assistant.

Her Instagram story showed Mark, my husband of almost six years, tenderly cutting steak for her.

Her caption: "My boss is the sweetest... I'd do anything for him! 😉 #BestBoss" The date stamp? Last night, celebrating "3 Years!"

Three years. We'd been married for almost six.

The nausea intensified, but it wasn't just morning sickness; it was pure disgust.

Mark' s call, dismissive, praising Chloe and her "lifesaving" efficiency, sealed it.

He called me "dramatic." He was praising his mistress to his wife, who just found out she was pregnant with his child after years of heartbreaking treatments.

The baby I' d fought so hard for, his baby, was conceived in a life built on his lie.

His betrayal was blatant, then aggressive.

Chloe slid into my apartment with a key during a blizzard, cozying up to him.

She sent me a suggestive photo, then faked a frantic call about a "boyfriend" and a "private suite."

On our sixth wedding anniversary, Mark abandoned me in my black dress for Chloe' s manufactured crisis, her fake pregnancy and suicide threat.

How could he be so blind? So utterly, completely heartless?

My quiet life had become a very loud, very ugly lie. It wasn't surprising anymore; it was just... final.

But I wasn't just Ellie anymore. I was Eleanor Hayes.

I signed the divorce papers, got the abortion, and left him a note with a rejected diamond ring.

Then, I boarded a flight back to Port City, ready to unleash the true power he never knew I possessed.

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Today is October 14th, my birthday. I returned to New York after months away, dragging my suitcase through the biting wind, but the VIP pickup zone where my husband’s Maybach usually idled was empty. When I finally let myself into our Upper East Side penthouse, I didn’t find a cake or a "welcome home" banner. Instead, I found my husband, Caden, kneeling on the floor, helping our five-year-old daughter wrap a massive gift for my half-sister, Adalynn. Caden didn’t even look up when I walked in; he was too busy laughing with the girl who had already stolen my father’s legacy and was now moving in on my family. "Auntie Addie is a million times better than Mommy," my daughter Elara chirped, clutching a plush toy Caden had once forbidden me from buying for her. "Mommy is mean," she whispered loudly, while Caden just smirked, calling me a "drill sergeant" before whisking her off to Adalynn’s party without a second glance. Later that night, I saw a video Adalynn posted online where my husband and child laughed while mocking my "sensitive" nature, treating me like an inconvenient ghost in my own home. I had spent five years researching nutrition for Elara’s health and managing every detail of Caden’s empire, only to be discarded the moment I wasn't in the room. How could the man who set his safe combination to my birthday completely forget I even existed? The realization didn't break me; it turned me into ice. I didn't scream or beg for an explanation. I simply walked into the study, pulled out the divorce papers I’d drafted months ago, and took a black marker to the terms. I crossed out the alimony, the mansion, and even the custody clause—if they wanted a life without me, I would give them exactly what they asked for. I left my four-carat diamond ring on the console table and walked out into the rain with nothing but a heavily encrypted hard drive. The submissive Mrs. Holloway was gone, and "Ghost," the most lethal architect in the tech world, was finally back online to take back everything they thought I’d forgotten.

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