The Matriarch's Poisoned Vow

My husband, Ronan Knight, CEO of the Knight Group, cheated on me with an influencer named Sienna Lowe while I was pregnant with his child. The tabloids plastered photos of them kissing on a private yacht across every front page.

To appease me and my powerful family, the Prescotts, Ronan claimed he had sent Sienna away for good, bound by a strict non-disclosure agreement.

But the damage was done. I developed a severe, crippling mysophobia. Any form of physical contact would make me gag uncontrollably.

The pregnancy meant I couldn't take sedatives, so my only relief from the crushing anxiety was a daily, obsessive ritual: demanding that everything be sterilized before it touched me.

Ronan, a man known for his volatile temper, now washed his hands with disinfectant over and over in a hollow performance of penance. If he needed to touch me, he wore medical gloves.

Whenever he entered my bedroom, he had to change into a full isolation gown. He never complained, no matter how suffocating it was under the plastic.

"It's okay," he'd say. "I was the one who broke our promise first."

The fragile peace shattered the day I ordered him to disinfect himself one more time. He finally snapped. He hurled a crystal glass against the wall right in front of me.

"Enough! I made one mistake—the same mistake every rich man on the planet makes! Why do you have to humiliate me like this? When did I become so filthy in your eyes?"

As punishment for my condition, Ronan threw a massive pool party at our lakeside estate, filling the air with the cloying stench of alcohol and sweat. He intended to use our unborn child's safety as leverage to break me.

Amidst the chaos and shoving, I was knocked to the ground. A searing pain tore through my abdomen. Soon, blood soaked my dress, a warm tide seeping down my inner thighs.

But in that moment, all I felt was an overwhelming, shocking sense of relief.

"Let's get a divorce, Ronan."

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1

Curled on the cold marble floor, I felt the warmth slowly drain from my body, stolen by the wet patch spreading beneath my dress. The cloying scent of Ronan Knight's cologne mingling with the pool's chlorine made my stomach churn.

I still remembered the day I saw the photos. Rain was lashing against the windows. I'd burst into his study, ecstatic, ready to share the joyous news of my pregnancy. But I found him smiling at his screen—at her. The influencer famous for her body.

Their intimacy was a physical blow.

From that day forward, any contact with the outside world filled me with a primal revulsion. I scrubbed my hands raw, took scalding showers, and refused to touch anything that hadn't been sterilized.

Ronan blamed it on pregnancy hormones. He indulged what he called my "condition," playing his part in our little farce of repentance—until tonight. Tonight, he'd finally grown tired of the performance.

"Look at you—you're a lunatic!" he had roared by the poolside, goading his guests into a drunken frenzy. Then he ordered his security to shove a drunken guest toward me.

"I want you to see that the world is inherently dirty!"

In that instant, a sharp, tearing pain ripped through my abdomen. Ronan watched me collapse. He watched me wail as my white dress bloomed red, but his face remained a mask of irritation.

"Stop acting, Cordelia," he said coldly. "The baby isn't that fragile."

He stepped around the growing pool of blood, pushed open the glass door, and strode away without a backward glance. The door slammed shut, the sound echoing across the suddenly quiet patio. The rowdy crowd melted away, leaving nothing but a mess in their wake.

With a trembling hand, I dialed our private doctor's emergency line. Not Ronan's. "Save me…" I sobbed into the phone, my voice cracking. "No… save the baby… Oh, God, it's too late."

As I waited, my consciousness began to fray at the edges. My mind drifted back to our wedding day. In the ancient, cavernous church, Ronan knelt on one knee, pressing a kiss to my fingertips.

Before God and our families, he swore he would be faithful to me, to our vows. Through my veil, his face was a blur. I couldn't tell if I was looking at love or a business deal.