My husband—while secretly flying his beautiful young secretary to New York to have their baby—called our housekeeper with that same commanding tone he used on everyone.
“Mr. Peterson. Be discreet. Don’t let my wife know anything.”
Mr. Peterson had served my family for over thirty years. He didn’t argue. He didn’t flatter. He didn’t stutter.
He answered with one sentence—one clean, calm sentence—that stunned my husband on the other end of the line and shattered his perfect world in a single breath.
“Sir… Mrs. Anderson sold the twenty-five-million-dollar mansion and left last week.”
My name is Abigail Thompson. I’m thirty-two years old—the only daughter of the chairman of Thompson Realty Group.
I grew up in the kind of American luxury people only see in magazines. Private schools. Summer homes. Security at the gate. Every door opening before I even reached it.
Hardship wasn’t a chapter in my life. It was a word I heard other people use.
And I truly believed my world would stay soft and bright forever—especially after I married Michael.
Michael was my first love. My only love. Three years older than me, the lead architect at one of our corporation’s subsidiary firms.
He wasn’t born into money. But he had talent. Drive. Charm. The kind of polished confidence that made him seem like he belonged anywhere.
He won me over with intelligence, chivalry, and those promises men make when they’re trying to convince you they’re different.
“I don’t care about money,” he’d say, looking straight into my eyes like the truth lived there.
My father—sharp, seasoned, hard to impress—hesitated at first. But I was determined, and Michael’s performance at work was excellent. Eventually, my father gave his blessing.
Our wedding was a spectacle. Beverly Hills. Flashbulbs. Headlines. A dress so perfect it didn’t feel real. The kind of day people remember even when it isn’t theirs.
After we married, my father spun off the architecture firm—handed Michael full control as both a wedding gift and a test.
Then my parents gave us the house: a twenty-five-million-dollar mansion in Beverly Hills. Ten thousand square feet of glass, stone, and perfect silence. A place that smelled like new money and fresh flowers.
Five years passed.
Michael’s company grew. He became one of the most successful young executives in Los Angeles. We had a beautiful son, Alex.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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