Love and Hate Are Gone

Three hours before my wedding, my fiancé called to say he wasn’t coming. He’d just gone and gotten a marriage license with Ashley Miller, of all people.

I stood there, feeling the judging stares of our guests, when suddenly the hotel doors swung open. It was my fiancé’s uncle, Greg, and he was leading the most insane procession of limousines I’d ever seen.

He presented me with a bouquet of nine thousand nine hundred and ninety–nine red roses, telling me he’d been secretly crushing on me for years and that it was his dream to marry me. I was so grateful to be rescued from that humiliation that I said yes on the spot.

Three years into our marriage, I’d suffered seven miscarriages. I was finally pregnant again. Greg was so overjoyed, he spun me around, making me promise I’d take it easy and saying that he’d give his life to protect me and our baby.

Then, at three months pregnant, I walked in on him talking to our private doctor:

“The abortion pills are already in her milk, just like the last seven times,” the doctor said. “I don’t understand,” he asked. “Ashley had your kid. Why not my wife?”

Greg gave a self–deprecating laugh. “Only a son can take over the company. Mark can’t have kids. How could I let Ashley suffer in the future?”