To the Barren Go the Spoils

My doctor was blunt: After the miscarriage, it would be extremely difficult for me to conceive again.

To prove his undying love and devotion, my husband immediately went in for a vasectomy.

Ill shield you from all the gossip and judgment, hed promised, his voice thick with sincerity.

The worldour circle of friends, his corporate rivals, the tabloidspraised him. Grant Harrington: Wealthy, devoted, the perfect modern husband.

I, however, slipped a signed divorce agreement across his pristine mahogany desk.

Everyone, I knew, would call me insane.

But only I knew the truth.

The young woman who had pushed me down those stairs.

She was the little bird my husband had been keeping in a gilded cage outside our home.

1

The very day I finally resolved to leave him, the blood test came back positive.

Twins, the doctor said. A miracle.

When Grant found out, he cut ties with the other woman instantly. He was efficient about it, cold and clinical.

But not unkind. He paved the way for the next few decades of her life.

A five-million-dollar trust.

A high-rise condo.

And a job that came with a guarantee shed never be downsized.

He rationalized it, saying the girlChloehad been with him for two years, since she was barely legal. It was the compensation she was due.

He seemed to have forgotten that I, too, had been young when I first stood by him.

It was during the year his family's empire collapsed. The year we were so poor our bank account held barely a thousand dollars leading into Christmas, and the rent was due in ten days. Our Christmas Eve dinner was instant ramen with a single egg, a rare splurge of two hot dogs, which wed politely tried to defer to the other.

As the fireworks cracked outside the window of our dingy sublet, he held me, swearing he would rise again. He promised he would never, ever betray me.

And he did rise. Grant rebuilt an empire.

But in doing so, he betrayed me utterly.

All that stress and sacrifice in those lean years had ruined my body, making pregnancy a near-impossibility. Hed never complained, and hed forbidden anyone from mentioning the subject of children around me.

Everyone in our circle envied me, not just for having bet on the right horse, but for having a man so committed.

But marriage is like a pair of shoes: only the wearer knows if they pinch.

While I was meticulously tracking my cycles and enduring fertility treatments, Grant was funding a college girl.

She was young, dewy, and untouched, like a perfectly peeled fruit.

When I was that age, I was enduring financial ruin and humiliation by Grants side. My compensation was the title: Mrs. Harrington.

His "compensation" to Chloe was enough money to buy a quiet, comfortable life. It made me feel like an absolute fool.

I resented him. I hated him. But a chilling, practical voice in my head insisted: Don't divorce him. Not yet.

I had his twins growing inside me. Id waited so long. I couldn't lose them. But once they arrived, they would need capital, influence, and resourcesthings I couldn't provide alone.

Whether I wanted to admit it or not, they deserved to be Harrington heirs, raised in their rightful home, destined to inherit everything.

If I could swallow my rage for a few more months, a life of immense security and privilege awaited us.

After a night of brutal internal debate, I decided to give him a final chance.

Grant took it as forgiveness. He stroked my swollen stomach. "Don't stress, Audrey. It meant nothing. If it had been anything serious, she would have been pregnant ages ago."

I pulled my hand away, ice cold. I laid down three non-negotiable terms.

First, an iron-clad prenuptial-style agreement: two-thirds of his assets must be irrevocably placed into a trust for our children.

Second, the entire Harrington family would sign a document affirming my childrens sole and complete right to the family inheritance.

Third, he had to cut off Chloecompletely, permanently, and publicly.

Perhaps it was the shock of the twins, or perhaps he genuinely believed he was ready to come home. He agreed to everything.

But the shift came that very night.

What arrived before the notarized agreement was a video message from Chloe.

In the video, she was weeping hysterically, mascara-streaked, claiming shed just found out she was pregnant.

Grants eyes lit up with a flash of undisguised joya brighter, more thrilling reaction than the one hed had when I told him about the twins. He quickly masked it, regained his composure, and ordered her to fly to Europe to deliver the baby. He'd arrange for a massive stipend and annual deposits, but the precondition was clear: she was never to return to the States.

Watching him calmly manage her future while refusing her a legitimate place in his life, she scrambled onto the window ledge, threatening to jump.

It took him two hours, sweet-talking her like a parent soothing a toddler, to coax her back inside.

When Grant finally collapsed into a chair, looking utterly defeated, with a "what am I going to do with you?" expression, Chloe suddenly erupted into delighted laughter.

She launched herself into his lap, a pout on her lips. It was a test, Daddy, she purred. Im not pregnant. I just wanted you to pay attention to me. Dont send me away. Im not trying to compete with the exhausted wife. She cant win anyway.

Grant reprimanded her sternly. That is not something to joke about!

She looked heartbroken. "But if I were pregnant, would you marry me?

2

Grant said nothing.

He simply pulled her tight against his chest.

The video ended there.

I was shattered.

The three terms we had just agreed on? He'd forgotten them the moment her tears started to fall.

I despised him.

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