Back then, I had no idea he was rich. He never told me. Not when he started courting me. Not when he showed up at my workplace with flowers, week after week.
"I can’t stop thinking about you, Claire," he whispered, fingers tracing circles on my wrist. "Let me be the man who makes you happy."
And I let him. God, I let him.
Our wedding was small—only my family was there.
"Where’s your family?" I asked.
Ethan exhaled, tightening his grip on my hands. "They won’t approve of us."
Pain flickered in his eyes. I believed him.
"But I don’t care," he whispered, pressing his forehead to mine. "I love you, Claire. That’s all that matters."
And I believed that too. For years, I thought I had everything. Ethan was the perfect husband.
"I missed you," he’d say, kissing me deeply, hands memorizing every inch of me.
He worked in New York, barely home during the week. But when he was, he made sure I never doubted his love.
"You’re my everything, Claire," he murmured in the dark. "You and our little world."
Then I got pregnant. Pure joy lit his face when I told him.
"We’re having a baby?" His voice broke as he cupped my stomach. "God, Claire, this is the best news of my life."