Calista

Waking in the middle of the night, I saw my husband of over ten years, Rupert Getty, holding his stepsister in a comforting embrace.

I thought he was just pitying her for her unhappy marriage, but I never imagined he'd rather relieve himself with her black lace lingerie in his hand than let me get close.

That night, I picked up the wedding ring he'd tossed in the bathroom corner and decided to play a more thrilling game with them.

The day our divorce papers were finalized, I tore our wedding photo in half right in front of him: "Take your little mistress and get out of my mansion."

Three years later at Paris Fashion Week, my haute couture collection stunned the audience.

Rupert broke through security and knelt in the center of the runway: "Harper, I'll transfer all my Getty Group shares to you! Will you come back to me?"

As camera flashes exploded, my first love Alaric stepped forward, shielding my shoulders: "Thank you, but your shares will have to serve as our wedding gift."

On his ring finger gleamed a platinum band, engraved with the same thorned rose pattern as my design sketches.

At the press conference, my husband Thaddeus Getty publicly declared his love for his first love in front of all the media.
In an instant, the whole world knew I was a wife who wasn't cherished by her husband.
Heartbroken but not defeated, despite my deep love, I chose to leave.
Months later, Thaddeus looked at my belly and snarled through gritted teeth: "Tell me, whose bastard child is this?"