His Wife's Secret, His Burning Rage

His Wife's Secret, His Burning Rage

Gavin

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For six months, I clung to the belief my wife, Sophia, was in Europe saving her family's struggling hospital-the one I' d poured my career into. Then she came home, stepping out of the car beaming, but not alone; her personal assistant, Mark, was with her, pulling her luggage. "I have something wonderful to tell you," she chirped, taking my hand, her eyes betraying a nervous flutter. "I'm pregnant," she announced, placing a protective hand on her stomach. My heart soared until her gaze shifted to Mark, and she added, "It's not yours." The world spun. My wife, pregnant with another man's child, stood before me in my home. "I'm three months along," she offered, clinically. Before the shock could fully register, she brazenly declared, "I need you. The baby has a congenital heart defect. A procedure only you perfected." She wanted me to save her lover's child. I was a surgeon, not a pawn. "No," I choked out, but her mask crumbled, revealing a ruthless stranger. "You will. Or I'll divorce you, tell the world you refused to save an innocent child, ruin your reputation, and destroy the hospital you built." Then, a chilling memory resurfaced: our miscarriage, years ago. Sophia had been oddly dismissive then, saying, "It was just a bunch of cells. Don't be so dramatic." Now, overhearing her on the phone with Mark, it clicked: "I'm not going to do something stupid like go jet-skiing just to show off for you again. We learned our lesson, didn't we?" Jet-skiing. She' d been eight weeks pregnant with our child then. She' d risked our baby' s life to impress him. My child hadn't been an accident; it had been a calculated choice. The love I felt for her vanished, replaced by a cold, hard resolve. I would do the surgery. But the moment that child was stable, I would burn our lives to the ground and walk away.

Introduction

For six months, I clung to the belief my wife, Sophia, was in Europe saving her family's struggling hospital-the one I' d poured my career into.

Then she came home, stepping out of the car beaming, but not alone; her personal assistant, Mark, was with her, pulling her luggage.

"I have something wonderful to tell you," she chirped, taking my hand, her eyes betraying a nervous flutter.

"I'm pregnant," she announced, placing a protective hand on her stomach.

My heart soared until her gaze shifted to Mark, and she added, "It's not yours."

The world spun. My wife, pregnant with another man's child, stood before me in my home.

"I'm three months along," she offered, clinically.

Before the shock could fully register, she brazenly declared, "I need you. The baby has a congenital heart defect. A procedure only you perfected."

She wanted me to save her lover's child. I was a surgeon, not a pawn.

"No," I choked out, but her mask crumbled, revealing a ruthless stranger.

"You will. Or I'll divorce you, tell the world you refused to save an innocent child, ruin your reputation, and destroy the hospital you built."

Then, a chilling memory resurfaced: our miscarriage, years ago. Sophia had been oddly dismissive then, saying, "It was just a bunch of cells. Don't be so dramatic."

Now, overhearing her on the phone with Mark, it clicked: "I'm not going to do something stupid like go jet-skiing just to show off for you again. We learned our lesson, didn't we?"

Jet-skiing. She' d been eight weeks pregnant with our child then. She' d risked our baby' s life to impress him.

My child hadn't been an accident; it had been a calculated choice. The love I felt for her vanished, replaced by a cold, hard resolve.

I would do the surgery. But the moment that child was stable, I would burn our lives to the ground and walk away.

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My world revolved around Jax Harding, my older brother's captivating rockstar friend. From sixteen, I adored him; at eighteen, I clung to his casual promise: "When you're 22, maybe I'll settle down." That offhand comment became my life's beacon, guiding every choice, meticulously planning my twenty-second birthday as our destiny. But on that pivotal day in a Lower East Side bar, clutching my gift, my dream exploded. I overheard Jax' s cold voice: "Can't believe Savvy's showing up. She' s still hung up on that stupid thing I said." Then the crushing plot: "We' re gonna tell Savvy I' m engaged to Chloe, maybe even hint she' s pregnant. That should scare her off." My gift, my future, slipped from my numb fingers. I fled into the cold New York rain, devastated by betrayal. Later, Jax introduced Chloe as his "fiancée" while his bandmates mocked my "adorable crush"-he did nothing. As an art installation fell, he saved Chloe, abandoning me to severe injury. In the hospital, he came for "damage control," then shockingly shoved me into a fountain, leaving me to bleed, calling me a "jealous psycho." How could the man I loved, who once saved me, become this cruel and publicly humiliate me? Why was my devotion seen as an annoyance to be brutally extinguished with lies and assault? Was I just a problem, my loyalty met with hatred? I would not be his victim. Injured and betrayed, I made an unshakeable vow: I was done. I blocked his number and everyone connected to him, severing ties. This was not an escape; this was my rebirth. Florence awaited, a new life on my terms, unburdened by broken promises.

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