Chapter 2

The drive back to our cramped apartment was a blur. My mind wasn't on the road; it was lost in the past, replaying the highlight reel of his deception.

I remembered meeting David in a university library. He wasn' t the brilliant, ruthless mogul I saw tonight. He was a shy, scholarship student with a slight limp he claimed was from a childhood accident. He wore faded jeans and sweaters with frayed cuffs, telling me his family was poor and that he was working his way through school.

He was drawn to me, he' d said, because I didn't care about material things. He said my passion for art was pure, and my kindness was the only wealth he' d ever need. I, a lonely art student who had just lost her parents, fell for it completely. I fell for the struggling, gentle soul who seemed to need me.

It was all an act. The limp, I now realized, was probably fake. His family wasn't poor; the business journals I' d frantically googled on my phone before leaving the conference hall said the Chens were old money, a tech dynasty. He had been testing me, seeing if I would love the pauper before he revealed the prince. But he never did. He just kept playing the part, long after the test was over.

Our wedding was a small affair at a courthouse. I wore a simple white dress I' d sewn myself. He promised me that one day, when his app took off, he would give me the world.

After we were married, his gentleness began to fray at the edges. The loving, needy man I married became moody and critical. He' d snap at me for small things, like spending a few extra dollars on better quality paint for my art. "We can't afford that, Sarah!" he would yell, his face contorted with a manufactured panic. "Every penny counts!"

Then, a year into our marriage, I got pregnant. I was overjoyed. I thought a child would bring back the man I'd fallen in love with.

When I told him, his face went pale, then twisted into a mask of pure fury.

"You can't be," he hissed, his voice dangerously low.

"I am, David! We're going to be parents!" I said, my smile faltering.

"Get rid of it."

The words hit me like a slap. "What? No! David, this is our baby."

"I said, get rid of it," he repeated, his voice cold and hard. "We can barely feed ourselves. How the hell are we supposed to raise a child? Are you insane?"

I refused. I couldn't. I would work harder, I told him. I would take on more shifts. I could make it work.

A few weeks later, Emily Hayes, who David had introduced as a "helpful colleague from a partner company," started visiting our apartment. She was always so kind, so sympathetic to our "struggle." She' d bring me special herbal teas, insisting they would help with my morning sickness.

"You need to take care of yourself, Sarah," she' d say with a warm smile. "You're so fragile right now."

I drank the tea every day. A week later, I collapsed at the diner, wracked with cramps. I woke up in the hospital to the devastating news. I had miscarried. The doctors found traces of a specific herb in my system, one known to induce contractions. They couldn't explain how it got there.

When I told David, clutching his hand and sobbing, he showed no emotion. He just stared at a spot on the wall behind me.

"It's for the best," he said, pulling his hand away. "We weren't ready."

There was no comfort. No shared grief. Just a cold, chilling finality. Now I knew. It wasn't an accident. Emily had done it. And David had let her. The thought made me sick to my stomach. My baby was gone because they had decided it was inconvenient.

The final memory, the one that broke whatever was left of my heart, was from two years ago. My father, my only living relative, was diagnosed with a rare heart condition. The surgery he needed was expensive, far beyond what his insurance would cover. I was frantic.

I begged David. I knew he was working on his big "Genesis" project with Mr. Henderson.

"Please, David," I wept. "Just ask your boss for an advance. A loan. Anything. I' ll pay it back, I swear. I'll work every day for the rest of my life if I have to."

He looked at me with those same, practiced, helpless eyes.

"I can't, Sarah," he said, shaking his head. "Mr. Henderson is already angry with me. The project is behind schedule. If I ask for money now, he' ll fire me. We' ll lose everything."

"But it's my father's life!" I screamed.

"And what about our lives?" he shot back. "I'm doing this for us! You have to be patient!"

I sold the small house my parents had left me. It was all I had. But the money wasn' t enough, and it came too late. My father died a week later.

I grieved alone, while my multi-billionaire husband, who could have saved him with the snap of his fingers, comforted me with empty words about the cruelty of fate. He held me as I cried, his touch a venomous lie. He had the money. He had it all along. He watched my father die, and he did nothing.

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