He Forced Eight Abortions Then Had His Mistress’s Baby

I stepped out of our building into the harsh morning light, my eyes swollen from a night without sleep. The doorman's sympathetic glance told me I looked every bit as broken as I felt. With nothing but my purse and the clothes I wore, I raised my hand to hail a taxi.

A yellow cab pulled to the curb. I slid into the backseat, the leather cool against my skin.

"Sterling Tower, please," I said, the irony of my destination not lost on me.

The driver nodded and pulled away from the curb. When we reached the first stoplight, I pulled out my wallet and swiped my card through the payment terminal.

DECLINED.

I tried another card. Then another.

DECLINED. DECLINED.

"Is there a problem, ma'am?" the driver asked, eyeing me through the rearview mirror.

My cheeks burned with humiliation. "I'm sorry, I'll have to get out here."

Standing on the sidewalk, I opened my banking app. Zero balance. Credit cards: all suspended. Marcus had been thorough, stripping me of every penny I had access to. I was, for all intents and purposes, destitute—the wife of one of New York's most successful CEOs, without a dollar to my name.

The realization hit me like a physical blow, and I leaned against a building, memories washing over me like acid.

*Five years earlier*

"You're sure about this?" Marcus asked, his voice betraying rare nervousness as we sat in the waiting room of Reynolds Construction Corp—then just a struggling startup with three employees and a rented office space.

"Absolutely," I replied, straightening his tie. "Your pitch is solid. Just remember to emphasize the sustainability angle when you get to slide fifteen."

I had stayed up all night helping him refine his presentation, making sure every detail was perfect. The potential investors were notoriously hard to impress.

When we entered the conference room, Marcus introduced me simply as "my wife" before directing me to a chair behind him. As he began his presentation, I watched the investors' faces, noting their reactions to each point. When Marcus stumbled slightly on the financial projections, I leaned forward and whispered a correction in his ear.

He recovered seamlessly, incorporating my suggestion without acknowledgment. It wasn't the first time, nor would it be the last. By the end of the meeting, the investors were impressed enough to commit five million dollars in seed funding.

"You nailed it," one of them said, shaking Marcus's hand vigorously.

"I knew you had potential, Reynolds," said another.

As we left, Marcus was exuberant, already planning how to allocate the funds. Not once did he mention my contributions—the financial models I'd created, the market analysis I'd conducted, the presentation I'd practically written.

I told myself it didn't matter. We were a team. His success was our success.

*Three years earlier*

The hospital corridor was cold, or maybe it was just me. I lay on the gurney, a thin blanket pulled up to my chin, tears streaming silently down my face.

"It's for the best, Victoria," Marcus said, standing beside me, checking his watch for the third time in five minutes. "We agreed children don't fit into our lifestyle right now."

We hadn't agreed. He had decided, and I had acquiesced, as I always did.

"The procedure is simple," he continued, his tone businesslike. "You'll be back on your feet in no time."

I turned my face away, unable to look at him. "I thought you wanted a family someday."

"What I want is to build something meaningful, something lasting," he replied. "Children are a distraction we can't afford. My company needs me—needs us—focused."

The doctor arrived then, clipboard in hand, and Marcus stepped back, relieved to be freed from the conversation.

"I'll be in the waiting room," he said, already pulling out his phone. "I have some calls to make."

As they wheeled me toward the operating room, I closed my eyes, feeling something inside me die that had nothing to do with the pregnancy.

*Present day*

The memory left me gasping for breath on a busy New York sidewalk. I looked up at the towering skyscrapers, symbols of the power and wealth that had both trapped and defined me.

With trembling fingers, I pulled out my phone. Dawn was breaking over Central Park, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold. I sat on a bench, watching joggers pass by, their lives continuing in blissful normalcy while mine imploded.

I scrolled to a contact I hadn't used in years. My finger hovered over the name: Arthur Sterling.

My father.

The man whose empire I had walked away from for love. The man who had warned me about Marcus and whom I had stubbornly defied.

Tears blurred my vision as I pressed the call button. One ring. Two rings.

"Victoria?" My father's voice, surprised but steady. "It's been a long time."

I took a deep breath.

"Dad," I whispered, the word foreign on my tongue after so many years. "I need to come home."