Chapter 1
Jake Greer, my husband, lied about being infertile just so he could dump me and move his side chick in as his new wife.
He looked me dead in the eye, voice thick with fake sorrow. "Babe, once we're done, I swear I'll never remarry. The guilt would eat me alive."
I played my part—tears streaming, chest heaving like I couldn't breathe.
The second I turned away, I exhaled like I'd been holding my breath for years. I shredded his fake report and tossed the confetti in the trash.
I'd been worried he'd crack if he ever learned the truth. Turned out I was stressing over nothing.
Divorce? Hell yes. And he was walking away with nothing.
Since I didn't protest, he was all smiles, already planning to marry his knocked-up mistress.
What he didn't know? Her pregnancy test was Photoshopped.
The infertility report I trashed? One hundred percent real.
*****
I carried Jake's real diagnosis around like a loaded gun for days.
I walked in from work and the entire Greer clan was parked in my living room like a funeral parlor. Every head swiveled my way, faces grim.
They all had grim faces, a storm of emotions swirling in their eyes.
My stomach dropped. They knew.
"Hey, when did you all get here? Didn't even give me a heads up." I tried to sound casual as I put down my bag. "I grabbed fresh shrimp; give me twenty and dinner's on."
I was halfway to the kitchen when my mother-in-law Olivia nailed me with a soft, "Maeve, honey, park it. We need to talk."
"Maeve, hang on a sec. We need to talk," she said.
Jake didn't even blink. "We're getting divorced."
"Come again?" My voice cracked like a teenager's.
He slid a report across the coffee table. "Remember Mom dragged us to the clinic? Results are in. I'm shooting blanks. Permanently."
How did he have a report? Mine was locked in my nightstand.
Then it hit me like a brick: the whole family was in on the scam.
I snatched the paper, eyes darting over every line. Something stank.
Suddenly, I remembered something my friend had told me a couple weeks back.
"Girl, I just clocked your man in OB-GYN with that little intern. Belly out to here. Calling each other 'honey,' 'baby,' the works. Snapped pics—check your phone," my friend had said.
Just in case I didn't believe her, she snapped a photo and sent it to me.
I'd zoomed in until the pixels screamed. Yup, that was Jake's "former" intern he swore had bounced.
Didn't Jake say she'd already quit?
Before I could dial him up and go nuclear, the hospital rang. "Mrs. Greer? Your husband left a critical report at the front desk."
The real one. The one that spelled it out in black and white: Jake Greer—zero chance of fatherhood, now and forever.
But Jake had no clue about any of this.
And neither did his mistress.
I swallowed the wildfire in my chest, let my voice wobble. "Jake, I don't give a damn about kids.
"I love you. We'll adopt, foster—hell, we'll get a goldfish and call it a day."
His eyes flickered—panic? greed?—then locked in.
"Nope. Can't do the pity party from your family every Thanksgiving. Let's end it clean. Last thing I can give you," he said.
He grabbed my hand, dropping into that honeyed courtroom voice. "I'm not selfish enough to steal your shot at being a mom, Maeve. I love you too damn much. I want you happy—even if it guts me."
"No! We're not splitting up. Millions of couples deal with infertility and make it work—why can't we?" I pleaded, my voice trembling.
"If modern medicine can't help, we'll try traditional remedies. If that flops, there are tons of old-school remedies. We'll try everything." I clung to his arm, giving him my best puppy-dog eyes.
He shot it down instantly. "I'm a grown man—how am I supposed to let the world know I'm sterile? I'd never live it down."