Carrying His Heir: The Unwanted Wife's Escape

The first rays of dawn sliced through the blinds, striping the living room floor in gray and white. Eleanor hadn't slept. She had sat on the sofa all night, a silent vigil for a marriage that was already dead.

The sound of hurried footsteps echoed from the hallway outside, followed by the familiar beep of the keypad.

Julian walked in, looking exhausted. The smell of the hospital was stronger now, a cloying scent of antiseptic and sickness that clung to him like a second skin.

His gaze swept over the room, noting the empty dining table and the trash can, which she hadn't bothered to hide. A flicker of something—guilt, maybe—crossed his face before it was gone.

He stopped in front of the sofa where she sat. He cleared his throat, his voice softer than it had been the night before.

"Seraphina's stable for now," he began. "But the doctors still want a backup supply of blood, just in case."

Eleanor didn't look at him. She stared at the intricate pattern on the Persian rug, her expression unreadable.

He frowned, his patience already fraying. He clearly thought she was still trying to bargain. He played his card.

"I'll do it," he said, the words sounding forced. "Tonight, at the gala. I'll announce our marriage."

Her eyelashes fluttered. Slowly, she lifted her head and looked at him, really looked at the man she had loved with a desperate, all-consuming passion for three years.

He must have mistaken her silence for consideration. He pressed his advantage. "On one condition. You go to the hospital right now and make the donation. And you behave yourself at the gala."

The sheer, unadulterated arrogance of it was breathtaking. A low, soft laugh escaped her throat. It sounded alien in the quiet room.

"What's so funny?" Julian demanded, his tone hardening.

Eleanor pushed herself off the sofa. Her body protested the movement, stiff from the long night. She steadied herself and walked to the wet bar.

She poured a glass of water, her hands perfectly steady. She took a sip, the cool liquid soothing her raw throat.

Then she turned to face him. "I've changed my mind," she said, her voice as calm and flat as a frozen lake.

He stared at her, genuinely confused. This was not part of his script. This was the one thing she had always wanted.

"I don't want you to announce our marriage anymore," she continued, her voice clear and precise. "I want a divorce."

The word hung in the air between them. Divorce.

Julian's face went rigid. His eyes narrowed, the pupils contracting into pinpricks of fury. In two long strides, he was in front of her. His hand shot out, grabbing her chin, forcing her head up.

"You're taking this game too far," he snarled, his face inches from hers. "It's pathetic."

She didn't flinch. She met his furious gaze with a look of pure, unadulterated contempt. "I find you disgusting," she said, the words sharp and clean.

That broke through his anger. He released her so suddenly she stumbled back a step.

A cruel, mocking smile twisted his lips. "This is about money, isn't it? You think threatening a divorce will get you a bigger payout."

He reached into his jacket, pulled out a checkbook and a pen. He scribbled a number-a lot of zeros-and tore the check out with a vicious rip. He threw it on the bar.

"Take it," he said, his voice dripping with disdain. "But you're giving the blood. And we are not getting a divorce. Forget it."

Eleanor looked at the check lying on the polished wood. It was an insult of such magnitude that it burned away the last vestiges of her pain, leaving behind only cold, hard clarity.

She picked it up.

For a moment, he looked triumphant.

Then, she tore it in half. And then in half again.

She let the pieces flutter from her fingers into the trash can beside the bar.

She looked at him, her eyes empty of everything but resolve. She pointed to the door.

"Get out."

The look on her face, the finality in her voice, seemed to finally get through to him. His face turned ashen with rage.

"You'll regret this," he bit out.

And for the second time in less than twelve hours, he slammed the door on his way out.