The Unwanted Wife's Ultimatum

From the back cover

I was seven months pregnant, a text from my distant husband, Ethan, promised a New Year's Eve "surprise."

I desperately hoped it was a chance to mend our fraying marriage before the baby.

But stepping into the upscale lounge, the "surprise" became my worst nightmare.

Ethan was intimately draped around his executive assistant, Lily Vance, who was brazenly wearing my designer gown.

His friends snickered, their amusement signaling my reaction was the only surprise.

When confronted, Ethan showed no remorse, just cold annoyance.

Lily gloated that my dress looked better on her.

Then Ethan cruelly dismissed me, claiming I couldn't satisfy him, calling me "not exactly arousing."

Lily sneered he needed "a real woman, not a... vessel."

Overcome, I vomited, splattering her stolen dress.

She shoved me, I fell, hitting a table, and my water broke.

"The baby!" I gasped, but Lily convinced Ethan I was faking.

He dragged me to a VIP restroom, locked me inside, dismissing my pleas for help as "drama."

Alone, trapped, in agonizing labor, my phone lost, I heard their indifferent laughter, their intimacy, through the door.

Hours later, strangers found me, covered in blood, barely breathing.

I woke in a hospital, heart-shattering truth: my baby girl was stillborn.

And Ethan, the man who'd built an empire with me, had blocked the hospital's desperate calls about our child.

His utter callousness, his active neglect in our daughter's death, burned away every last shred of loyalty.

He would not, could not, get away with this.

In that sterile room, a cold, pure resolve ignited: he would pay for everything.