Without exception, none lasted. They were flavors of the week—discarded as easily as used tissues.
Just like me.
His lawful wife.
In the beginning, I fought back. I screamed. I made scenes. Once, I even slammed divorce papers on the table hard enough to crack the wood.
Back then, Jackson would do anything to keep me. He'd drop to his knees on the cold marble floor, slap his own face until his cheeks bloomed red, and wield every weapon in his arsenal—soft pleas, hard threats—until I crumbled.
I was naive. I kept thinking, *Maybe next time. Maybe he'll change. Maybe he'll go back to the man he used to be.*
After all, he had loved me so deeply once.
But this time—combined with the ninety-eight betrayals before it—severed the last thread.
*I can't have children?*
On the surface, yes. That was the narrative.
But was that an excuse for infidelity? He could have divorced me. Instead, he kept me bound as a figurehead while he bedded half the city. He even forced me to clean up his messes, making me personally dismiss every discarded mistress like I was running a revolving door of heartbreak.
He didn't know the truth.
My "infertility" wasn't a defect.