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My impotent husband got a fertile college woman with child. He was overjoyed and had planned to hide it until the child was born—but I caught him red-handed at the hospital. I lost control and demanded to know why he would betray me, the one who had secured a large sum of revenue in orders for him. He coldly handed me the divorce papers: “You weren’t the kind of woman who could give me a child,” he said flatly. “Chloe is already in her second trimester. She needs a husband to take care of her. I’m marrying her. I’m giving her a home.” Then he added, like he was doing me a favor, “Sign it. If you split with me cleanly, you’ll still have a place at Blackwood & Co.” I refused, and his revenge was relentless. He sent me to prison, froze all my assets, and finally tied my cardiovascular-ill parents to a free-fall machine. “Divorce,” he said, voice calm as a judge’s gavel, “and I’ll let them go. Refuse, and you’ll watch them die up there.” Crying, I signed, begging him to spare my family. But in the next moment, my parents were thrown from the machine. I watched in horror as they died before my eyes. “No!!!” When I woke up, I was back on the day my husband made me sign the divorce papers. This time, I slammed both the divorce agreement and my resignation letter in front of him. “As you wish.” Sebastian Blackwood—my husband, the man who’d been medically declared sterile—had gotten a fertile college girl pregnant. He’d been over the moon. He’d planned to keep it quiet until the baby was born. But I caught him red-handed at St. Brigid Private Clinic. I lost control screaming for an explanation. I demanded an explanation for his betrayal—especially after, the woman who’d been closing nine-figure deals back-to-back for him, the one who’d practically built his empire from the ground up. He handed me a divorce packet with the same cold detachment he used when he signed off on layoffs. “You weren’t the kind of woman who could give me a child,” he said flatly. “Chloe is already
