By the time my rideshare dropped me at my parents’ suburban Virginia home, my resolve had hardened. I walked inside to find Julia glowing under the attention of my parents, her blond curls perfectly arranged, her designer coat draped effortlessly over her shoulders. Next to her stood Daniel—tall, polished, every bit the man magazines labeled “America’s Most Eligible CEO.”
Except his left sleeve was wet, droplets clinging to the fabric.
He’d sheltered her from the rain.
He never once sheltered me.
I walked straight to him, hooked my arm around his, and smiled sweetly. “Honey, your sleeve’s soaked. You’ll catch a cold. Why didn’t you let me bring you inside?”
The room froze. Julia’s eyes flickered, her lips tightening almost imperceptibly. Daniel stiffened, trying to pull away without making a scene, but I clung tighter, enjoying the discomfort twisting across his perfect features.
Upstairs, he stormed into the guest room behind me. “Enough, Cherry. Stop acting out.”
“You asked if I signed the papers. I didn’t.” I folded my arms. “I’m pregnant, Daniel.”
His jaw locked. “I told you. I had a vasectomy.”
“Then get a new doctor,” I shot back. “You’re the only man I’ve been with. Or would you rather accuse me of cheating?”
For once, he had no comeback.
At dinner, I kept up the act—asking Daniel to fetch dishes, refill my water, pass me things across the table. Watching him grit his teeth while Julia’s expression darkened with each request was delicious.
But when I casually announced, “Mom, Dad… I’m pregnant,” the room erupted. A glass shattered behind me. I turned to see Julia standing midway down the stairs, her face white as fresh snow.
Daniel grabbed my wrist and dragged me out the door. “Why would you say that?” he snapped once we were alone.
“Because it’s true.”
He left me at home with a furious glare and disappeared into the night. I didn’t care. Not anymore.
The next day, Daniel’s assistant called. He’d been hospitalized from a severe stomach flare-up—undoubtedly from eating spicy food with Julia. I brought him leftover porridge just to annoy him, then nearly collided in the hallway with Simon Hayes—the man Daniel despised most in the world, and the only person who ever seemed amused by my rebellion.
“Cherry, you’re glowing,” Simon murmured. “Revenge suits you.”
I rolled my eyes. But my heart thudded uneasily.
Because standing between my toxic marriage and Simon’s unpredictable charm…
I suddenly had choices.
And that terrified me more than anything.
Everything spiraled quickly after that. A fall down a staircase, a frightening blackout, and then waking in a hospital bed to find Simon sitting beside me—eyes fierce, knuckles white—as if he’d been guarding me all night.
“You scared the hell out of me,” he muttered, voice low. “Next time you’re walking anywhere, I’m bubble-wrapping the hallways.”
He tried to hide the emotion, but I saw it. Felt it.
And so did Daniel, who barged in moments later, anger radiating off him. “Cherry is my wife.”
“Was,” Simon corrected coolly.
What followed was chaos—Daniel demanding explanations, Simon mocking him, nurses threatening to call security. But something shifted inside me as I watched them.
Daniel wasn’t fighting for me.
He was fighting because Simon wanted me.
That realization made my decision crystal clear.
Within days, I signed the divorce papers. My family tried pressuring me, guilt-tripping me, even offering money to smooth things over for Julia’s sake. I accepted their money without shame and walked out of that life with nothing but a suitcase and the child growing inside me.
I moved across the country to a quiet town in Oregon. Fresh air. Minimal noise. A chance to rebuild.
Except the day I moved in, Simon leaned against the doorframe opposite mine, grinning like a man who’d orchestrated the universe. “Cherry Carter—sorry, Cherry Walker now? Fancy seeing you here.”
“You followed me.”
“No,” he said, tapping his chest. “I chased you.”
Despite myself, I laughed.
And when a runaway car almost hit me weeks later, it was Simon’s body slamming into mine, rolling us out of danger, breaking his leg in the process. While he recovered, I realized something undeniable: Simon wasn’t performing. He wasn’t competing. He was staying. Choosing. Loving.
My son was born on a snowy December morning. Simon held him first, tears slipping down his cheeks. “Hey, little man. I’ve been waiting a long time to meet you.”
When my son learned to talk, he called him “Dad” without hesitation.
Daniel showed up at our small, intimate wedding years later—pale, trembling when he saw my son, who resembled him like a mirror. But biology didn’t define family, and my son hid behind Simon’s leg, whispering, “Mommy says not to talk to strangers.”
Daniel broke. I didn’t.
I walked forward into a life I chose, a love that chose me back.
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