It was his mother who orchestrated my marriage to Harrison.

She had arranged for us to meet right after I graduated from college.

She told Harrison that I was the only woman who could be a Blackwood bride.

He fought it, argued, threw tantrums, but in the end, he couldn't defy his mother.

He agreed to the marriage.

When we first got married, I thought I had finally found my safe harbor.

I was filled with hope for our future.

I tried so hard to be the perfect wife, putting him first in everything.

When my coworkers would ask me out for drinks, I’d always say no.

I was worried he wouldn’t eat properly if I wasn’t home to cook for him.

Eventually, they just stopped asking.

My world revolved around him; I didn't even notice I was cutting myself off from everyone else.

I thought if I gave him my whole heart, he would eventually give me his.

I was wrong.

Not long after the wedding, Harrison started staying out all night.

I told myself he was just busy with work.

I would cook healthy meals and bring them to his office, reminding him to take care of himself.

Then one day, at a gala, a perfectly dressed woman walked up to me.

She smiled, a glint of malice in her eyes.

“Mrs. Blackwood,” she purred. “I hear you were an orphan. That must be why you’re such a good cook. Did you work in a kitchen to get by?”

That’s when I realized that all the meals I had poured my heart into were ending up in another woman’s stomach.

I confronted him when we got home that night.

It was the first time I had ever raised my voice to him.

But it wasn’t really a fight.

It was just me, screaming into a void.

He watched the whole thing with a detached calm, like I was some lunatic having a breakdown.

When I finally ran out of steam, he spoke, his voice slow and even.

“Chloe, did it ever occur to you that this whole self-sacrificing act is just you being dramatic?”

That one sentence shattered every defense I had.

All the good I had done, all the love I had given, meant nothing to him.

He was just a spectator, calmly watching my performance before delivering his cool, devastating review: you’re being dramatic.

How pathetic.

I didn’t know how to face him, or how to face our future.

So I ran away from it.

I deliberately stopped paying attention to him.

Soon, the tabloid headlines started.

Yesterday, he was at a fashion show with a supermodel.

Today, he was having dinner with a flight attendant.

Tomorrow, he’d be checking into a hotel with a business partner.

Seeing it all laid out like that, I broke.

I wanted a divorce.

But his mother pleaded with me.

“It’s all for show, Chloe, it doesn't mean anything. He actually cares about you, he just doesn’t know how to show it. For my sake, please, just try a little longer.”

She had been my sponsor since I was five years old.

Thanks to her, my life in the orphanage had been safe and comfortable.

I owed her everything.

So I endured.

Slowly, I went from heartbroken to numb about his affairs.

Then, last year, his mother found out I needed sleeping pills just to get through the night.

That’s when she finally relented.

“Have a baby for Harrison,” she said. “Boy or girl, it doesn’t matter. After the baby is born, I swear I’ll let you two divorce.”

For the sake of my freedom, I forced myself to get healthy again, taking vitamins and supplements.

But he wouldn’t touch me.

He preferred to sleep at his office rather than come home to our bed.

So I did something desperate.

I went to a fertility clinic.

I used the sample he’d frozen years ago to do IVF.

And it worked.

I got pregnant.

I had the baby.

And now, finally, I was going to be free.