After He Drained My Fertility, I Became His Enemy

Morning light streamed through our penthouse windows as I carefully prepared Christopher's favorite dish. The familiar scent of butter and herbs filled our kitchen while I meticulously arranged the lobster thermidor—the same dish we'd shared on our honeymoon five years ago. My fingers worked with practiced precision, each movement a small act of love.

"This will make him smile," I whispered to myself, remembering how his eyes had lit up that magical evening in the Hamptons. The memory was so vivid: Christopher feeding me a bite across the candlelit table, promising me forever as waves crashed against the shore outside our window.

I packed the dish into an insulated bag, taking extra care to ensure it would stay warm. Christopher had called earlier, asking if I could bring his lunch to Le Cygne where he was having an important business meeting. The request was unusual, but I was happy to help—eager, even, to surprise him with his favorite meal.

"Perfect timing for our anniversary month," I murmured, smoothing my hair before heading out. Despite five years of marriage, my heart still fluttered at the thought of seeing him unexpectedly during his workday.

The taxi ride to Le Cygne felt longer than usual, my mind drifting between memories of our early days together and the subtle changes in Christopher over recent months. He'd been working later, his touch less frequent, his mind seemingly elsewhere even when we were together. I'd attributed it to stress—his position at Sterling Enterprises demanded so much of him.

Le Cygne stood as a beacon of Manhattan elegance, its façade gleaming in the midday sun. I felt slightly underdressed as I approached the entrance, clutching the insulated bag to my chest. The maître d' raised an eyebrow at my casual attire, but I explained I was simply delivering lunch to my husband.

"Mr. Sterling? Yes, he's at his usual table," he said, gesturing toward the back of the restaurant.

My steps were light as I wound through the maze of white-clothed tables. I spotted Christopher's broad shoulders first, his perfectly tailored suit jacket stretched across them. My lips parted in a smile that froze when I saw who sat across from him.

Madison Walsh. The striking brunette from his office. Her hand rested atop his on the table, their fingers intertwined intimately.

Time seemed to slow as Christopher leaned forward, capturing her lips in a lingering kiss that spoke of familiar passion. My grip tightened on the bag, knuckles whitening as the restaurant around me blurred. Several patrons turned, witnessing my stillness, my shock.

When Christopher finally pulled away from Madison, his eyes met mine. There was no surprise in them. No guilt. Only cold recognition and something else—something that made my stomach twist: amusement.

"Ah, Sophia," he said, voice carrying across the now-hushed section of the restaurant. "Perfect timing. Bring the food over, will you?"

My feet moved forward mechanically while my mind screamed in protest. Madison's eyes raked over me, taking in my casual clothes