A bitter laugh threatened to escape my lips. A fairy tale? The prince, my husband, was upstairs betraying me, while I was still drowning in the illusion of his perfect devotion. Memories flashed before me: the extravagant wedding, the love-filled social media posts, the way he showered me with affection, always making me feel like I was his world.
It was all a lie.
***
By the time I stumbled back into our home, the weight of betrayal crushed me. Tears streamed down my face, but I wiped them away hurriedly as our family doctor entered the room.
"Time for your injection, Mrs. Simson," she said softly, holding up the syringe.
I froze, staring at the thick needle. My heart ached as fresh tears welled up. Six months ago, when Harry discovered he had "weak sperm," I had willingly undergone grueling IVF treatments for him.
The daily hormone injections, the endless medications—I endured it all because he said he wanted a child. Our child. I used to be terrified of needles, but I forced myself to be brave. The bruises, the allergic reactions, the weight I’d gained—it didn’t matter. I wanted to make him happy.
But now I knew the truth. His sperm wasn’t weak. He wanted a child, yes, but not with me.