Billionaire Husband Went Crazy After Ex-Wife Died

In my fifth year of marriage to Dominic, I'd become the woman all of Chicago knew as the crazy one — the mental case. Jealousy gnawed at me constantly, and my temper frayed easily, my emotions sharp and unsteady, unravelling more with each passing day.

So it only made sense when he slid a divorce agreement across the table.

"Vivian's pregnant. A Harrington heir can't be born illegitimate, and Mrs. Harrington can't be a lunatic."

"Once she's had the baby, I’ll marry you again, and you'll still be Mrs. Harrington."

I was forced to sign my name, then locked away in a private sanatorium a hundred miles from the city.

The first year, I waited with desperate hope for him to come take me home. Instead, he handed me an ultrasound report.

"Twins — a boy and a girl. Vivian's pregnant again. Just wait a little longer."

The second year, he had electric fencing installed around the sanatorium grounds.

"Harrington Corp is going public. We can't afford any slip-ups right now."

By the fifth year, he simply called to tell me to wait one more year.

He must have expected me to scream and lose control the way I always did. But this time, I just nodded calmly.

"Alright. However long it takes."

After all.

I didn't have much time left anyway.

The other end of the line was noisy — Vivian's laughter mingling with children's voices drifted through the phone.

Dominic was silent for a few seconds, then lowered his voice.

"Claire, don't do this. You know my hands are tied."

I'd been hearing that line for five straight years. The old me would've torn the world apart, demanding to know what excuse the almighty Harrington family could possibly have.

But now.

I pulled the blanket over my legs — long since stiff and unresponsive — and took a deep breath.

"If there's nothing else, I'm hanging up. I need to rest."

On the other end, Dominic was rushing out the door, his patience already wearing thin.

"I made you a promise, and I'll keep it. But the children are still young — taking them from their mother would hurt them. If you're so petty you can't even tolerate a couple of kids, how do you expect to run the Harrington household?"

"I have things to deal with. Think it over, and stop being so unreasonable."

The line went dead. For the first time, I didn't cry. I didn't scream.

I was about to wheel myself back to my room when the old symptoms flared up again.

A searing pain tore through my chest. I toppled from the chair and hit the floor hard, blood surging up my throat and choking off my voice. I tried to speak but couldn't stop coughing.

The medication was gone. I dug my nails into my palms, fighting to stay conscious. I forced out a few words.

"Call... call Dominic."

My caregiver Nora scrambled for the phone, hands shaking — but as always,