My Husband Demanded Divorce For His Mistress' Baby

I draped the pale linen curtains across the nursery window, letting sunlight filter through the delicate fabric. The room was still empty, waiting for furniture, but in my mind, I could already see it—a white crib against the wall, a rocking chair by the window, soft toys scattered across a plush rug. I carefully unpacked the framed sketches I'd drawn, propping one against the wall to see how it looked.

"Perfect," I whispered to myself, running my fingers along the pencil lines of a mobile I'd designed with little stars and moons. One month into my marriage with James, and I was already planning our future family. After years of waiting for him, of being second choice to Victoria, I finally had what I'd always wanted. James Crawford was my husband, and this penthouse—this nursery—was where we'd build our life together.

I heard the front door open and close. James was home early.

"Sarah?" His voice echoed through our spacious Manhattan penthouse.

"In here!" I called back, excitement bubbling in my chest. I wanted to show him my plans, to see his eyes light up at the thought of our future children.

But when he appeared in the doorway, his expression was unreadable. His eyes swept over the curtains, the sketches, and something flickered across his face—was it discomfort?

"What's all this?" he asked, his voice carefully neutral.

"Just some ideas for the future," I said, my smile faltering slightly. "Do you like the curtains?"

He nodded absently. "We should get ready. Our reservation is at seven."

That evening, we sat at a table on the exclusive rooftop restaurant where James had proposed to me six months earlier. The Manhattan skyline glittered around us like a crown of jewels, and soft music played in the background. It was our one-month anniversary, and despite his earlier reaction, I felt hopeful again.

"To us," James said, tipping his crystal glass toward mine. The champagne caught the candlelight, bubbles rising like tiny dreams.

I clinked my glass against his. "To us. And to our future."

His smile didn't quite reach his eyes.

"I was thinking," I continued, emboldened by champagne and happiness, "maybe we could plan that honeymoon we never took. The Maldives, perhaps? Or Italy? Somewhere we can just be together, away from everything."

James nodded, but offered no reply. He took a long sip of his champagne, his eyes drifting to the city beyond.

The rest of dinner passed with pleasant but superficial conversation. James asked about my day, commented on the food, discussed a business deal he was working on. But there was a distance in his eyes that I couldn't quite understand. I told myself it was work stress, that he'd come around to the nursery idea when he had time to think about it.

When we returned home, James took my hand and led me to our living room. The city lights twinkled beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a soft glow across his face. He looked serious, almost solemn.

"Sit down, Sarah. We need to talk."

My heart skipped a beat as I sank onto our white leather sofa. James remained standing, pacing slightly, his hands clasped behind his back.

"I've received some news," he began, his voice taut with what he clearly wanted me to interpret as reluctance. "It's about Rebecca."

"Victoria's sister?" I asked, confusion creeping in. We rarely spoke of Rebecca, though I knew she and James had maintained contact after Victoria's death.

He nodded, stopping his pacing to look at me directly. "She's pregnant."

I blinked, unsure why he was telling me this with such gravity. "Oh. Well, that's... good for her, I suppose?"

"It's more complicated than that." James ran a hand through his dark hair. "The child needs legitimacy, Sarah. A proper family name."

Something cold slithered down my spine. "I don't understand."

"It was artificial insemination," he said quickly, too quickly. "A decision made before our marriage. But now, with the child coming, there are... expectations. Responsibilities."

"James," I said slowly, "what exactly are you saying?"

He knelt before me, taking my hands in his. His touch felt wrong suddenly, foreign. "I need a temporary divorce, Sarah. Just until the child is born. I need to marry Rebecca, give the baby my name, fulfill my duty. Then we can remarry. It would just be for a short while."

The room seemed to tilt around me, the city lights blurring into streaks of cold fire. After years of waiting, of being patient while he mourned Victoria, after finally becoming his wife just one month ago—he was asking me to step aside again.

"Your duty?" I whispered, my voice barely audible over the sudden roaring in my ears. "What about your duty to me? Your wife?"

His expression hardened almost imperceptibly. "This is about doing right by the child. About honoring Victoria's sister. You of all people should understand sacrifice, Sarah."

In that moment, looking into his eyes, I saw something I'd never allowed myself to see before—the cold calculation behind every word, every touch, every promise he'd ever made me.