No Second Chances for My Amnesiac Groom

1 The wedding march was three measures in. I stood at the beginning of the aisle in a strapless silk gown embroidered with thousands of micro-crystals, feeling the weight of the train pooling behind me. All I had to do was wait for Simon to walk down from the altar, take my hand, and lead me the rest of the way. Every seat in the cathedral was taken. Across the nave, the champagne tower caught the morning light filtering through the stained glass, throwing fractured diamonds across the pews. In the front row, my mother, Susan, clutched a lace handkerchief in her trembling fist, her eyes rimmed with red, smiling with a joy so fierce it looked like relief. Seven years. From eighteen to twenty-five. From cramped college dorms to the anchor desk at Channel 7 News. Everyone in our circle said the same thing: Nora Hayes was the luckiest woman in the city because Simon Mercer had carried her on his palms for nearly a decade. He stood under the vaulted archway, sharp in his bespoke tuxedo. I gathered the heavy satin of my skirt and took a step toward him. Then another. I was three paces away when his shoulders hitched. Simon winced, pressing the heel of his palm hard against his temple. He swayed, his knees buckling slightly, and Marcus, his best man, lunged forward to steady his elbow. "Simon?" A knot tightened in my throat. I reached out, my fingers brushing the lapel of his jacket, but he snapped his head up. The eyes that had watched over me for seven years—eyes that had always held a gentle, almost suffocating warmth—were completely blank. He looked through me as if I were a sheet of glass. A stranger trespassing in his line of sight. "Who are you?" he asked. The cathedral went dead. A rustle of confusion rippled through four hundred guests like dry leaves scraping across concrete. I froze. The train of my dress suddenly felt like cast iron anchored to the stone floor. Simon didn’t spare me another second. He looked straight past my bare shoulder, his gaze locking onto the second row of mahogany pews on the left. Evelyn Ward. His childhood friend. The fragile, sickly girl whose family lived next door to his growing up—the one who claimed the world was too loud, too sharp, and that she couldn't survive without him nearby. Simon shook off Marcus’s grip. He walked past me with brisk, purposeful strides. Then, beneath the gaze of hundreds of colleagues, socialites, and my weeping mother, Simon sank onto one knee on the burgundy runner. He looked up at Evelyn, his microphone clipping his lapel, his voice low, steady, and amplified through every speaker in the vaulted ceiling. "Evelyn, marry me." A pause, thick as suffocating smoke. "I’ve loved you for so long." 2 The blood drained from my limbs, leaving my veins filled with slush. Marcus broke the trance first. He bolted down the aisle and grabbed Simon by the collar of his jacket. "Are you out of your goddamn mind, Simon?!" His voice echoed sharply against the limestone walls. "Seven years! Nora is the bride today! She’s twenty-four weeks pregnant with your twins! Don’t pull this psychotic stunt now!" Simon pulled his arm free with a light, dismissive scoff, looking at Marcus like he was a toddler throwing a tantrum in a grocery aisle. "Pregnant?" Simon turned his head slightly, glancing at me. The sheer indifference in his expression—the faint, patronizing irritation—was a blunt knife sawing slowly into my sternum. "I don't know her," he said. The room erupted. "What is happening? Did he have another episode?" "Is his amnesia back?" "Jesus Christ, what about Nora? Look at her bump..." My mother tried to stand, her hands gripping the pew in front of her, her lips trembling so violently she couldn't form a syllable. I stood frozen in the middle of the aisle, my fingers gripping the stems of white calla lilies until the stalks snapped and green sap stained my satin gloves. Marcus’s face was gray. He gripped Simon by the nape of his neck and half-dragged him toward the private vestry off the side of the altar. The heavy oak door didn’t catch. It remained open by a sliver. I moved toward it like a sleepwalker, my feet carrying me across the stone floor without my permission, until I was pressed against the shadowed molding outside. Their voices cut through the jamb with razor clarity. "Are you really going to keep this charade going?" Marcus’s voice was a furious hiss. "Evelyn has a bad week, so you turn Nora into the town joke in front of four hundred people?" Charade. The amnesia. It was fake. The tips of my fingers went numb. A silence hung in the room for several seconds. When Simon spoke, it was that same low, measured voice I had fallen asleep to for seven years—reasonable, calm, utterly devoid of guilt. "Evelyn is spiraling, Marcus. Her doctor said the stress could trigger another cardiac event." "So you destroy your pregnant fiancée?!" "Evelyn depends on me. She only listens to me," Simon said evenly, as if explaining an algebraic equation. "I have to give her absolute, unmistakable proof that she comes first. It’s the only way to stabilize her." Marcus sounded incredulous. "And Nora? She’s six months along! You humiliated her at her own wedding! What happens when she finds out this was all staged?" "Nora will fix herself." The reply came without an instant of hesitation. "She’s always been sensible, Marcus. Since she was a kid, she’s known how to handle her own mess. With my intermittent amnesia as an excuse, she’ll rationalize it. She always finds an excuse for me." 3 My spine pressed flat against the chilled plaster. So that was it. The rare, tragic diagnosis. The transient dissociative amnesia his private neurologist had supposedly confirmed three years ago. Every time he looked at me with unrecognizing eyes. Every time he abandoned our anniversary dinners to rush across town because Evelyn couldn’t breathe. Every time he wavered between two women, retreating into the fortress of a convenient, untestable mental fog. It was theater. Seven years of immaculate, rehearsed theater. And for seven years, I had believed him. I had wiped my own tears in hospital waiting rooms, smoothed things over with his horrified friends, comforted my weeping mother, and swallowed every humiliation whole. I had held his hand in the dark and told him, It’s okay, Simon. I love you enough for the both of us. We’ll wait for you to come back. I was the clown in his private circus. Inside the vestry, Simon spoke again, adjusting his cuffs. "Stay out of it, Marcus. If something happens to Evelyn because I hesitated, I won't be able to live with myself." I closed my eyes. When I opened them, the small, desperate ember of love I had nurtured since I was eighteen was gone. Not smothered. Crushed into fine, gray powder. He was right about one thing. I was sensible. I knew how to fix myself. And once I fixed myself, I didn't want his child. And I didn't want him. I turned around, lifting the hem of my dress, and walked back onto the raised platform. The officiant was still standing frozen behind the pulpit, holding the leather-bound service book like a shield. Four hundred guests stared at me, their eyes burning into my skin like branding irons. I didn't look back at them. I walked up to the minister, reached out, and took the wireless microphone from his hand. The metal casing was still warm from Simon’s palm. I turned to the congregation. My voice, honed by years of live news broadcasts, came out entirely level. "Thank you all for coming," I said. "Please consider this your official notice: the wedding is canceled." Total silence fell over the room. "From this moment forward, Simon Mercer and I have no relation to one another. Our lives are separate." I set the microphone gently on the wooden lectern. I stepped down from the dais just as the vestry door swung open. Simon stepped out. Hearing my announcement, his face didn't register a flicker of surprise or panic. He didn't even look in my direction. Instead, he walked straight back to the second row. He leaned over Evelyn Ward, brushed a stray dark curl away from her forehead, and smiled with infinite tenderness. "Little princess," he murmured, his voice carrying clearly in the quiet. "Want to ditch this place with me?" A sharp intake of breath rippled across the pews. I smiled. A tiny, genuine pull at the corner of my mouth. It was astonishing how quiet a heart could be when it finally stopped beating for someone. I walked to the front row where my mother sat. Her tears were soaking through her lapels, her hands shaking so hard she couldn't pick up her purse. "Nora..." she choked out. "My sweet girl..." I pulled a tissue from my pocket, gently dabbed the corners of her eyes, and kept my voice low. "It’s over, Mom. Let’s go home." 4 After settling my mother into a quiet boutique hotel room downtown and making sure she had taken her blood pressure medication, I called an Uber. The driver glanced at my smeared eyeliner in the rearview mirror. "Where to, miss?" "St. Jude Women’s Pavilion," I said. "Emergency admission." He didn't ask another question. Outside the window, the neon signs of the city blurred into streaks of magenta and cold blue. My hand rested instinctively on the swell of my belly. Twenty-four weeks. Twins. Two little boys. The sonographer had told me at my last scan that they were thriving, measuring slightly ahead of schedule, curled around each other like two small apples. I used to keep the ultrasound printouts hidden in a locked folder on my phone, waiting for Simon’s next "lucid period" so we could celebrate together. There would be no celebration. At the hospital, I bypassed the regular triage desk and checked in directly at maternal-fetal medicine. The intake nurse took my chart, glanced at my driver's license, and then looked down at my intake form. Her pen stopped moving. "Ms. Hayes," she said, her voice dropping to a cautious, clinical whisper. "You’re requesting a late-term termination for a twin pregnancy?" "Yes." "Given your gestational age, this requires medical induction and a surgical evacuation. The risks are substantial. Severe hemorrhaging, uterine scarring, infection, and a permanent risk of secondary infertility." She hesitated, looking at the diamond engagement ring still on my left hand. "Is your partner here? Have you discussed this with your family?" I looked down at my lap. My fingers curled into a fist, then slowly relaxed. Discuss it? With whom? With the man who dropped to one knee before another woman while his unborn children were inside me? I knew better than anyone what it felt like to grow up in the shadow of a lie. My mother had been deceived into being a married man’s secret mistress for seven agonizing years. I had spent my childhood hearing the whispers behind closed doors, branded a bastard child by suburban neighbors who looked at me with pity and disgust. I swore on my life that my children would never inherit that legacy. They would never be treated as the collateral damage of a coward's double life. "I don't need to discuss it," I said, meeting her eyes. "My signature is on the consent form. Please prepare the room." 5 Before they wheeled me into the procedure suite, the nurse prepped my arm for an IV line. I turned my head away, watching the fluorescent lights humming in the ceiling. My phone buzzed on the stainless steel bedside stand. A push notification from Instagram. I unlocked the screen with an unsteady thumb. It was a new post from Evelyn Ward. In the photo, she was wearing my custom-tailored silk reception gown—the one I had left in the bridal suite—reclining into Simon’s chest. The background was the ballroom at the St. Regis, where our reception had been scheduled. The five-tier cake stood behind them; the champagne tower remained untouched. Her caption read: Rock bottom isn't terrifying when someone chooses you again and again, healing every wound you never thought would close. A cascade of likes rolled in beneath it. Marcus's profile picture was among them. I stared at the image. Her childhood insecurities were worthy of being healed by Simon’s public, theatrical devotion. But my life, my mother’s dignity, and the two heartbeats fluttering beneath my ribs were simply disposable. I laid my hand flat against my stomach. A bitter, metallic taste flooded my mouth. "Family needs to step out," the transport tech announced, pulling open the curtain. "We’re rolling." I closed my eyes. As the propofol burned through my vein, cold and thick, I heard something deep in my chest snap. A clean, final fracture. 6 The surgery was complicated by heavy bleeding. The attending physician informed me that my uterine wall was thinned, and the blood loss had exceeded typical thresholds. I had to remain in the recovery bay until late afternoon with an abdominal pressure pack. I lay under the scratchy hospital sheet, watching the water stains on the ceiling tiles. My stomach was flat again. Empty. The emptiness hurt worse than the physical cramping tearing through my pelvis. At four o’clock, the doctor finally signed my discharge papers. "Bed rest for at least two weeks, Ms. Hayes. No heavy lifting, no cold baths, and absolutely no emotional stress. If the bleeding picks up again, come straight to the ER." I nodded. I stopped by an attorney's office two blocks from the hospital. In thirty minutes, an experienced family lawyer drafted a clean separation agreement and property division for our co-owned property. She was an older woman who listened to the timeline with tightening lips and a trembling jaw. "You should have left him years ago, dear," she murmured as she stamped the notary seal. "I know," I said. By the time the cab dropped me off at our high-rise condominium, twilight had bruised into navy blue. Every step up the carpeted hallway felt like walking through wet cement. I leaned against the doorframe, catching my breath before punching in the keypad code. The door clicked open. I froze. The living room lights were glowing softly. Evelyn was curled up on our Italian leather sofa, draped in my champagne silk robe—the one I had bought three months ago for my wedding night. She held a mug of chamomile tea, looking entirely at home. When the lock beeped, she looked up, her expression entirely neutral. "What are you doing here?" she asked. From the kitchen, the hum of the range hood clicked off. Simon walked out carrying two plates of glazed salmon. The moment his eyes landed on me, his brows knit into an irritated scowl. "Are you serious, Nora?" His tone was thick with exhaustion, like an exasperated homeowner dealing with a persistent stray dog. "I don't even remember you right now. Stalking me back to my apartment—isn't this getting pathetic?" Evelyn gave his arm a gentle, playful nudge. "Simon, be nice." I stood by the entrance console, a cold draft sliding through my coat. My limbs were shaking from blood loss, but the sheer absurdity of the tableau gave me a strange, chilling clarity. I reached into my bag, pulled out the manila envelope, and tossed it onto the kitchen island. "Simon," I said, my voice deadpan. "How long do you plan to keep playing the amnesia card?" 7 Simon’s hand froze mid-air, the plate hovering an inch above the marble island. The silence that followed was suffocating. He set the plate down slowly. Without looking at me, he walked over to Evelyn, whispered a few soothing words into her ear, guided her gently into the master bedroom, and pulled the door shut behind her. When he turned back around, the blankness in his eyes was gone. He looked exhausted, calculating, and slightly annoyed. "Marcus told you?" he asked quietly. I didn't answer. He let out a long breath, pinching the bridge of his nose as if organizing his patience. "Nora, Evelyn’s nervous system is shot. She’s been in and out of clinics since we were kids. She relies on me. If I don't give her absolute reassurance, she spirals into self-harm." "And me?" I asked. It wasn't an accusation; it was barely a question. He hesitated for two seconds. "You’re overcomplicating things. It’s an outward gesture, Nora. You know I have an obligation to her—" "An obligation?" "I care about her," he said smoothly. "But I love you." I stared at him. The man I had shared a bed with for seven years. He had managed to reduce seven years of gaslighting, public humiliation, and calculated abandonment into a tidy little phrase: an outward gesture. Seeing my silence, Simon softened his posture. He took a step toward me, reaching out to pat my shoulder like an adult soothing an unreasonable child. "Be good, Nora. Don't throw a fit over optics. Tomorrow morning, I'll take you to City Hall. We’ll get the marriage license signed properly. Just the two of us." City Hall. In seven years, he had proposed three times, and all three times, the actual registry appointment had been canceled because Evelyn had an emergency. Now, he was offering me a courthouse signing like a bone thrown to a dog. I nudged the manila envelope toward him with one finger. "Keep it," I said. "We’re breaking up—" The master bedroom door slammed open. Evelyn charged out, her hands clutching her head, her face pale and damp with tears. "You're leaving me... you're going to marry her anyway... I can't breathe, Simon, I can't do this anymore—" She stumbled toward the floor-to-ceiling balcony doors. Simon’s face drained of color. He lunged across the living room, catching her around the waist just before she reached the sliding glass. "Evelyn! Stop! Look at me!" She thrashed in his arms, sobbing hysterically. Then, suddenly, she turned her head, saw me standing by the island, and lunged. Her fingers hooked into my hair before I could react. Crack. Her open palm struck my cheekbone. "You!" she screamed, her spit hitting my face. "You’re trying to steal him from me! Get out! Leave him alone!" A second slap landed across my ear, followed by a third. My post-op body had no balance; my knees buckled, and I went down hard on the hardwood floor. A sharp, hot tear ripped through my pelvic wall, and the taste of copper filled my mouth. Before I could push myself up, Evelyn abruptly dropped to her knees, clutching her own shoulders, shaking violently. "I'm sorry... I'm sorry..." she sobbed into the carpet. "I didn't mean to... I couldn't control it..." Simon dropped beside her, wrapping both arms around her trembling frame, pulling her tightly against his chest. Then, he looked up at me. There was no horror in his face. No instinct to help me up. Only cold, mounting resentment. "Nora," he snapped, his voice sharp with blame. "You know how unstable she is. Why did you have to come back here and trigger her?" 8 I lay on the floor for a long time, unable to gather enough strength in my core to stand. Through the veil of my disheveled hair, I saw Evelyn resting her cheek against Simon’s shoulder. As his hand stroked the back of her head, she tilted her chin slightly. Her eyes met mine. And in that split second, her trembling lips curved into a distinct, razor-sharp smirk. It was deliberate. Triumphant. A cold numbness spread through my chest, drowning out the throbbing pain in my cheek. I dragged myself up, using the side of an armchair for leverage. My hand was shaking so badly I could barely keep my grip. Before I could take a step toward the guest room, Simon’s hand shot out and clamped around my wrist. He was still kneeling, looking up at me with an unyielding scowl. "Apologize to her, Nora." Apologize. The word echoed in the empty spaces of my mind. With it, the very last fragment of warmth I had preserved for this man vanished completely. I jerked my wrist out of his grip with every ounce of strength I had left. Without a word, I stumbled into the guest bedroom, dragged my duffel bag from the closet, and began tossing my clothes inside. Outside, Evelyn’s muffled whimpering continued through the drywall. "Simon... did I ruin everything again? I didn't want to hurt her... my chest hurts so much..." Simon’s voice was lower than silk. "It’s not your fault, Evie. I'm right here. You're safe." I sank onto the carpet, my forehead pressed against the zipper of my suitcase, my nails digging into the skin of my palms until they bled. Halfway through packing, my phone vibrated in my coat pocket. It was Sandra Powell, the executive producer at Channel 7. I took three shallow breaths, swallowed the blood pooling behind my teeth, and answered. "Sandra?" "Nora, thank God you picked up," Sandra said, her voice taut with urgency. "Someone leaked the footage from the cathedral. It’s on TikTok, and local news blogs have picked it up." My stomach plummeted. "What are they saying?" "Someone claiming to be an insider is running a smear campaign on Twitter," Sandra said, sighing heavily. "They’re framing you as a homewrecker who trapped a wealthy man with a pregnancy while his sick childhood sweetheart was pushed aside. The comments are disgusting, Nora. Broadcast standards has already called me. You need to keep your head down, or management is going to pull you off the six o'clock broadcast." I closed my eyes. "I understand. Thank you for the heads-up, Sandra." I hung up and tapped on Twitter. The top trending post under our city’s hashtag was from an account called @EvelynsSun. It was a detailed, emotional thread narrating the tragic romance of Simon Mercer and his delicate childhood love, portraying me as the opportunistic, ambitious journalist who wedged herself between them using an unplanned pregnancy as leverage. The final tweet read: I don't understand why Ms. Hayes had to do this. Simon and I grew up together; we only took a break. But as long as he's happy, I will step aside. The replies were a wall of vitriol: —Desperate social climber gets what she deserves. —Getting pregnant out of wedlock to secure a bag? Classic. —Justice for the real partner. My vision blurred, the edges turning gray and static. A cold sweat broke out across my collarbone. I tried to brace myself against the bed frame, but my hands slipped. The room tilted violently, and darkness swallowed the floor. 9 I woke up to the smell of hospital-grade antiseptic and the steady hum of an IV monitor. I turned my head. Simon was sitting in the vinyl armchair beside the bed, looking rumpled and tired. When he saw my eyes open, a flicker of relief—and perhaps a ghost of affection—crossed his face. "Why didn't you tell me you had a fever?" he asked softly. "If Evelyn hadn't heard you collapse in the guest room, you could have gone into septic shock." He reached out, his hand cool against my forehead. "The fever finally broke." I looked away from him, staring at the sterile white curtain. The window showed a pitch-black night. I reached toward the bedside table for my phone. Simon’s hand moved quickly, hovering over the screen before he reluctantly handed it over. "Don't look at it right now, Nora. You need to rest." My chest tightened. I swiped the screen open. Over eighty missed calls. Dozens of frantic texts from colleagues and college friends. And on the local trending tab, a new headline blazed: #Channel7AnchorNoraHayes HighSchoolScandal My thumb shook as I opened the link. Three hours ago, @EvelynsSun had posted another update. This time, she claimed to be a former high school classmate of mine from suburban Ohio. The thread alleged that I had engaged in an inappropriate relationship with our married track coach, Mr. Harrison, causing a scandal in our district. Attached was a class graduation photo. And next to it: a grainy, telephoto shot of Mr. Harrison walking into an OB-GYN clinic in Cleveland, his hand resting on the shoulder of a young woman whose back was turned to the camera. The angle made her hair and posture look eerily identical to mine at seventeen. The caption read: I wasn't going to say anything, but since she ruined an innocent woman's wedding, everyone should know the truth about how she operates. A tear slipped silently down my temple, soaking into the cotton pillowcase. I looked at Simon. "Ruining my career. Does that make the two of you feel better?" Simon answered instantly, his tone defensive. "This has nothing to do with Evelyn." His certainty was absolute. "She doesn't know anyone from your high school. She wouldn't even know where to find these pictures. You probably crossed someone in the industry, Nora. An ambitious rival taking advantage of the wedding press." He paused, his eyes shifting away from mine toward the baseboard. "Or," he added quietly, "maybe there's some truth to it." 10 A sharp, acidic burn shot straight through my sinuses. I stared at him, my voice barely audible. "You think it’s true?" Simon kept his eyes fixed on the wall. "True or not, it doesn't matter anymore, Nora. It’s in the past. I wouldn't leave you over something that happened when you were a teenager." My ribs felt like they were collapsing inward, suffocating my lungs under an impossible weight. My phone rang again. It was Sandra Powell. I pressed the speaker button, my voice hoarse. "Sandra." "Nora," Sandra sighed, sounding bone-tired. "You know corporate policy on morality clauses. With the station’s parent company going through a merger, management won't tolerate this kind of press." "I understand." "Take a personal leave. Settle your domestic situation. We’re moving Jessica up to cover the evening desk starting tomorrow." The call ended with a dull click. The phone slipped from my limp fingers, landing against the rough hospital blanket. I stared at the ceiling tiles, counting the tiny black dots in the plaster. When I spoke, my voice was a flat, dead whisper. "Simon." "We’re done." "Get out of my life." Simon sighed, pressing his fingers into the corners of his eyes. His tone shifted back to that practiced, patronizing cadence—the voice he used when I was being 'difficult.' "Stop it, Nora. I know you're humiliated. I know you're upset." He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the edge of the mattress. "But you won't leave me. We’ve been together seven years. You’re carrying my children. You don't know how to exist without me, and I know you're not going to raise those babies alone." Seven years of devotion. My unborn twins. To him, they weren't sacred milestones of a shared life. They were leverage. Guarantees that I would remain his compliant, ever-forgiving spectator. The hollow ache in my chest didn't flare into rage. It settled into a cold, flat calm. His phone buzzed in his breast pocket. He pulled it out, glanced at the caller ID, and immediately stood up. "I need to take this," he murmured. Two minutes later, he pushed the door back open, pulling his coat on. "Evelyn is having another panic attack," he said briskly. "Her blood pressure is through the roof. I have to go back and check on her." He walked to the foot of the bed, his tone matter-of-fact. "You’re an adult, Nora. Learn to take care of yourself for one night. Stop overthinking everything." He reached for the door handle. "I’ll see you tomorrow." The door clicked shut. His footsteps receded down the linoleum hallway. I looked back at the ceiling. I couldn't even summon the energy to feel disappointed. 11 Ten minutes after Simon left, a floor nurse entered with an IV bag of saline. She paused at the door, glancing down the empty hallway where Simon had just disappeared. "Was that your husband?" she asked, adjusting the flow valve. "I tried to catch him at the nurses' station to go over your discharge restrictions. You had a late-term surgical termination of twins yesterday morning, followed by a secondary uterine hemorrhage. You cannot be left alone under any circumstances—" She stopped, noticing my silence. "He told you he had an emergency?" she guessed, her professional mask cracking into quiet sympathy. "Yes," I whispered. She hung the bag on the metal stand and gently tucked the blanket around my shoulders. "You’ve had two significant bleeds in thirty-six hours, Ms. Hayes. Your hemoglobin is critically low. You cannot afford an emotional breakdown right now. Please, try to sleep." I nodded, closing my eyes, letting the saline drip cold into my arm. By three o'clock the following afternoon, my fever had vanished, and the cramping had dulled to a low, manageable ache. I signed my own discharge against medical advice and called a cab back to the condominium to gather the rest of my legal documents and clothing. The penthouse was silent when I entered. On the glass coffee table in the center of the living room sat a massive bouquet of three dozen long-stemmed red roses. And resting against the crystal vase were two embossed leather folders. State of New York. Certificate of Marriage. My feet seemed to root themselves to the floorboards. I walked forward as if drawn by a wire, reaching out with a trembling hand to open the top folder. The gold lettering gleamed beneath the recessed spotlights. The photograph showed Simon Mercer in a crisp charcoal suit, and Evelyn Ward wearing a cream lace dress with a fingertip veil. Both of them were smiling with effortless, radiant ease. The date stamped at the bottom was today. Ten o’clock this morning. A dry, hollow laugh escaped my throat. Last night, in my hospital room, he had promised to take me to City Hall to 'make things right.' This morning, he had married Evelyn Ward. The bedroom door clicked open. Simon walked out carrying a glass of water. When he saw me standing over the coffee table holding the certificate, he froze. "Nora? What are you doing out of the hospital?" His gaze shifted to the papers in my hand. He didn't apologize. He didn't flinch. He simply exhaled a slow, weary sigh, as if explaining an inconvenient administrative delay. "Evelyn is pregnant," he said. I stared at him. "Last month, on our anniversary trip, you got angry about her calling me and took the train home early," Simon explained calmly. "She came over to the hotel. We were both drinking. It happened once." He took a sip of water. "She started vomiting yesterday morning. I took her to urgent care, and the blood test confirmed it. She’s five weeks along." He looked at me with an expression that bordered on pity. "Nora, she isn't strong like you. She couldn't survive the social shame of having a child out of wedlock. I couldn't let my baby be born a bastard. So we went down to the municipal clerk this morning." 12 The word hung in the air between us like cyanide. Bastard. I stood there, feeling the cold weight of the leather folder in my palm, my mind struggling to process the sheer depravity of his logic. "And my children?" I asked. My voice sounded thin, scraping against the back of my throat like dry sandpaper. "My twins... they're supposed to be born bastards?" Simon sighed again, stepping closer, his voice dropping into that soothing, reasonable register. "Once you deliver, we’ll handle it legally. We can arrange an open adoption agreement through Evelyn. On paper, she’ll be their mother of record, and they’ll have the Mercer name. No one will ever know." He reached out, his fingers lightly brushing my arm. "Nora, a piece of paper doesn't change what we have. Even with this marriage, you are the woman I love. Nothing between us has to change. You’ve always been sensible, Nora. You understand why I had to do this, don't you?" Seven years. Seven years of shared meals, shared beds, shared secrets. And in the end, his cruelty was so absolute because he genuinely believed I lacked the pride to walk away. I let out a short, ragged breath. "Nothing changes? You want me to be your secret mistress?" Simon fell silent. He looked down at his leather loafers, then met my eyes, his tone deadening into something vile. "Your mother lived as a mistress for seven years, Nora," he said quietly. "It’s not like the concept is unfamiliar to you."