On our seventh wedding anniversary, I found another woman’s lace thong in my bedroom.

My husband, Mark Donovan, stood in front of the closet and said coldly,

“She’s just a kid, Leslie. Don’t make this ugly.”

That “kid” was pregnant with his child.

That “kid” had already moved into my home, worn his shirts, slept in my bed, and made him cut down the magnolia tree my dead parents planted for me.

Everyone in the Donovan family thought I would scream, cry, and beg.

After all, I had loved Mark for nine years.

But this time, I only picked up my suitcase.

Because they didn’t know one thing.

The divorce had already been filed.

The Donovan wife’s emerald brooch had already been returned.

And the evidence against his precious little mistress had already been delivered to the old Don.

Mark thought I was walking out of his mansion.

He didn’t know I was walking out of his life.

Forever.

As I approached the wrought-iron gates of our estate, I saw the groundskeeper directing men to cut down the magnolia tree at the entrance.

Mark caught up with me, his voice flat and businesslike, the same tone he used when ordering a hit.

"Leslie, Megan's pregnant. The scent makes her nauseous. The tree has to go."

That tree was planted the day I was born. My parents had died in a rival family's ambush when I was six, leaving me almost nothing. That tree was one of the few things I had left of them.

When my eyes reddened, he didn't soften. Instead, he pulled out his wallet.

"Name your price. I'll compensate you."

I didn't answer.

What price could you put on a tree? On seven years of marriage? Even our seven years of marriage had become something I no longer knew how to value.

I thought back to last month at the ski lodge in Aspen, he'd done the same thing. "Leslie, give Megan your goggles. The glare bothers her eyes. You can use the spare pair."

It was always like this. Megan's needs always came first. And me? His wife? I was just there, made to feel like an outsider.

I watched the magnolia tree begin to fall, its white blossoms scattering across the driveway like snow.

"It's just a tree," I said softly. "How could it compare to Megan's baby?"

Mark froze, clearly surprised. In the past, whenever he had coddled Megan, I would have surely caused a scene

"Leslie... you're really not angry?"

Before he could say more, Megan came running out in one of Mark's dress shirts, its sleeves rolled up to reveal angry red welts across her forearms.

"Mark!" Her voice was breathy, panicked. "I think I'm having an allergic reaction. The baby, oh God, what if something happens to the baby?"

She stumbled dramatically, twisting her ankle.

Mark's face changed at once, cold calculation giving way to raw fear. He swept her into his arms, cradling her like she was made of glass.

"Get Dr. Castellano here. NOW." His voice cracked like a whip at the house manager.

The staff exchanged glances, some smirking at me. The Don's wife, humiliated again.

And in that moment, I couldn’t help but find the scene absurd myself.

Yesterday, I'd been rear-ended on the highway. My car had spun out, hit the median.

Sitting in the cold, sterile hallway of the hospital, I dialed Mark’s number again and again, my fingers trembling uncontrollably from fear. The phone rang countless times, yet not a single call connected.

I'd thought he was in a meeting with the other families. Some kind of emergency.

Then I saw him at the end of the corridor, carefully guiding Megan toward the obstetrics wing. My husband, the feared underboss of the Donovan crime family, was tying her shoelace and whispering something that made her smile.

My chest felt as if it had been crushed by an invisible hand. My throat went dry, and a heavy, suffocating weight settled over me.

Now, standing in our driveway, I gripped my suitcase handle and turned to leave.

Mark's hand shot out, fingers closing around my wrist like a vice. "Apologize."

"What?"

Before I could even react, he had dragged me over to Megan, his voice dark and commanding:"I told you two days ago we needed to cut down that tree. You refused. Now Megan's had an allergic reaction because of your stubbornness. Apologize to her and the baby."

In all our years together, Mark had never spoken to me like this.

When I'd oversalted the osso buco, he'd smiled and said everything I made tasted perfect.

When I'd interrupted his meetings, he'd patiently asked what I needed.

That all changed the day he told me he wanted to sponsor a scholarship student named Megan.

"Her mother was killed in a drive-by, simply for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The girl's been working three jobs just to survive. We can't let that talent go to waste."

The first time I met Megan, she'd looked at me with those huge, earnest eyes.

"Mrs. Donovan, I'll work so hard. I promise I won't let you down."

"My grades were perfect before... before my mom died. I just need one chance. One chance to prove myself."

Looking at her, I'd seen myself at that age.I grew up without parents, endlessly drifting from one family to another.

No one ever offered me a chance to change my destiny, so I had learned to rely only on myself.

Each day, I awoke to the indifferent, sometimes contemptuous, eyes of those around me.

Seeing the longing in Megan’s eyes, I felt a reflection of my own past—a child yearning desperately to be seen, clawing at life with everything she had, desperate to seize even the faintest glimmer of hope.

I'd softened.

For months, I'd treated Megan like a little sister. I'd taken her shopping on Fifth Avenue, taught her how to navigate society events, showed her how to handle the wives of Mark's associates.

I even brought Megan into our family’s private gatherings, the kind of dinners where alliances were made over wine and old loyalties. I introduced her as my sister, guided her through conversations with family heads and their wives, and taught her how to smile, listen, and hide her nerves.

At one of those dinners, Sally Marconi, the wife of one of Mark’s lieutenants, pulled me aside near the bar.

“Leslie, watch yourself,” she whispered, glancing toward Megan. “That girl is charming your husband right under your nose. She isn’t as innocent as she looks.”

My face went cold.

“You have no right to accuse her,” I said. “Megan is still young. Don’t dress up your jealousy as concern.”

Sally flushed and stepped back.

After that night, I cut her off completely.

Megan would call me “sister” with pure devotion, insisting that I was the kindest, most generous person in her life.

She promised that one day, she would repay my kindness, and for a time, I believed her.

For a while, she did not disappoint. She gained admission to the best school here.

But on the night she received her acceptance letter, all that trust and affection shattered when she crept into my husband’s bed.

I'd left work early that day, planning to surprise her with a celebration dinner.

Instead, I'd walked into our bedroom and found them tangled together in our bed, clothes scattered across the floor.

In that moment, something inside me snapped.

I hurled the cake at them.

I smashed every vase, every potted plant in the room, letting them shatter into a thousand pieces.

Mark scrambled to shield Megan, pressing her behind him, his voice tight and panicked:

“Leslie, this is a misunderstanding! I was drunk. I don’t even remember anything after the second glass Megan brought me. You have to believe me. You’re the only one I love!”

But to me, it all felt like a cruel, absurd farce.

Megan had collapsed to her knees, tears streaming down her cheeks, her voice trembling as if it might shatter at any moment. "Leslie… we were both drunk, but I… I truly love Mark,” she sobbed.

“I know I’ve wronged you, but Mark… he’s the best person in the world to me.”

“I’m not as strong as you, not as capable as you. I just want to be with the one I love. I know I can never compete with you, but please… just let me stay in your lives. I’ll do anything.”

Mark froze, his eyes flickering with a moment of hesitation and guilt.

“I… I didn’t know. I didn’t know she felt this way about me. I’ve always treated her like a little sister. Leslie… believe me, the only person I love is you.”

My chest felt as if it had been struck by a sledgehammer.

My throat tightened, dry and raw, making it almost impossible to speak.

One was the person I had cared for and protected like a sister.

The other was the man I had shared years of love and life with.

Tears blurred my vision, and I didn’t know how to face any of it.

In the end, I chose to forgive,.

On one condition: Megan had to leave.

I'd thought that would fix us.

But three months later, the phone rang—

it was Megan. Her voice trembled with urgency, tinged with helplessness:

“Leslie… I’m pregnant… the doctor said that if I terminate, I may never be able to have children. I have to keep this baby… please, forgive me.”

From that moment, my life shifted once again, completely and irrevocably.

Mark took Megan back under his wing, bending over backward to accommodate her every whim.

Every glance, every word of caution, every gesture of care—first and foremost, they were for Megan.

Her slightest movement drew his attention; her slightest mood swing stirred him more than anyone else.

Her needs, her comfort, her fears—he was always the first to attend to them.

I had been his partner through years of struggle and the confidante who stood beside him through everything, yet I was pushed into the shadows of the life I had helped build.

I didn’t understand.

What about me?

What am I worth?

A joke?

I'd cried myself to sleep night after night, imagining the sneers of everyone in our circle.

Now, standing in the driveway, Mark's voice cut through my memories.

"Leslie, don't you understand? Your career, your reputation, and your position exist because of me. Because of my family name."

"Without me, you're nothing."

"I told you Megan wouldn't affect your life. She lost the job she worked her ass off to get because of this scandal. We owe her."

I bit my lip, closed my eyes, and drew a deep, shuddering breath.

I turned slowly to Megan, bowing my head with a formal weight:

“I’m… sorry.”

Then I raised my eyes, cold and sharp, and asked Mark:

“Now, are you satisfied?”

His brow furrowed, and the abrupt ring of his phone pulled him aside.

Megan moved closer, her voice dropping to a whisper, eyes gleaming with malice.

"Leslie, I have to admit, you're tougher than I thought. Here you are, the laughingstock of every society page in New York, and you still won't leave."

“Leslie… remember the day you cried and begged Mark to fly you in a helicopter to see your grandmother one last time?

Do you know why he refused?” She deliberately drew out the words, savoring the provocation.

“Because that day, he promised to take me to watch the sunset at the beach.

See? This is the seaside restaurant I’ve always wanted to try. He went with me. See? Here's a photo from the restaurant. He took me there while your grandmother took her last breath."

In that instant, it felt as though an icy hand had clamped around my heart.

With a sharp motion, I knocked Megan’s phone from her hand, rage burning through me.

I grabbed her by the collar, unable to hold back anymore.

In the struggle, Megan shoved me toward the nearby tree.

I tumbled down, branches scraping across my shoulders and arms, the sting of pain making me groan involuntarily.

I gritted my teeth, supporting myself, the ache leaving me momentarily speechless.

Then I heard a familiar voice:

“Leslie!”

He came running, my heart stirring at the sight of him.

But the next moment, he froze. His eyes landed on Megan, kneeling on the ground, clutching her abdomen.

"Mark... help me... the baby..."

Before she could finish, Mark bent down and scooped her into his arms, his expression taut with urgency.

I stood there, dazed, my shoulder pierced by the branch, pain shooting through me like needles, my chest tight as if I could hardly breathe.

The house manager rushed over. "Mrs. Donovan, Mrs. Donovan! You’re bleeding—we need to get you to the hospital—”

I shook my head, forcing myself to rise despite the pain, staggering toward the driveway alone.

Hearing that I was bleeding, Mark's retreating figure suddenly froze. His brow furrowed sharply, and he spun around, striding toward me with quick, urgent steps. His eyes filled with concern as they landed on the blood soaking through my shoulder, his hand reaching out almost instinctively.

But in that exact moment, the servants' gazes shifted in unison toward Megan—she was clutching her abdomen, her face deathly pale, doubled over in pain. Urgent whispers flitted through the air:

“She’s bleeding too much, this isn’t right.”

“A pregnant woman bleeding! She needs to get to the hospital immediately!”

The cacophony pierced Mark’s heart. His gaze flickered for a fraction of a second, his body frozen. Then, with jaw clenched, he pivoted sharply toward Megan, shouting over his shoulder without even glancing at me:

“Leslie, don’t move. I’m taking her to the hospital first.”

Without another word, without a backward glance, he bent down and lifted Megan into his arms, disappearing in the direction of the driveway.

A wave of dizziness crashed over me. Pain and blood intertwined in my mind, and my vision blurred at the edges. My body went limp, consciousness slipping away.

When I opened my eyes again, I was lying on a bed in the medical room. The house manager stood beside me, his face etched with worry.

"Mrs. Donovan, you were injured. Are you all right?"

I shook my head, my voice weak but steady.

"I'm fine. I can take care of myself."

"Don't worry. I can get home on my own. I just... need some time to clear my head."

The pain in my shoulder stabbed through muscle and bone like needles. I rubbed the wound gently and pushed myself up, heading toward the door. Using my injury and exhaustion as an excuse, I refused the manager's offer to escort me home. Instead, under the cover of night, I slipped quietly out of the medical room.

The night wind hit my face, cold and biting. I took a deep breath, gritting my teeth against the sharp pain in my shoulder, and started the car. Slowly, I drove down the long driveway, my mind replayed everything in relentless loops: blood, agony, betrayal, and the moment he chose to save her first.

That same night.

After staying by Megan’s side for hours, Mark searched the entire estate, but I was nowhere to be found. He turned to the house manager for answers. The butler simply told him: I had left the medical room by myself.

By the time he realized it, I was already at JFK, boarding a flight to London.

My phone buzzed with a text from Mark:

Leslie, Megan had a severe hemorrhage. This is all your fault. I hope you reflect on your actions in the hospital. Stop being so selfish.

I didn't reply.

Mark, from this moment forward, you and I are done.

Forever.