The Wind That Knows My Heart

The room was dim, the air heavy with the soft hum of luxury. My heart pounded as I crept silently down the hallway, each step filled with dread and betrayal. Seven years of marriage, built on laughter, promises and dreams, seemed to unravel before my eyes as I approached the partially open door of the presidential suite.

Inside, the man who once vowed eternal loyalty to me was seated with a woman draped in provocative lace. Her delicate voice floated into the hallway.

"Harry," she cooed, her fingers tracing his jawline. "I know you don’t have weak sperm. You just don’t want her to have your baby."

My stomach churned as I pressed my trembling hand to the wall for support.

She leaned closer, her voice dripping with desire. "Let me have your child, okay? I’ll do anything."

His response, low but clear, sliced through me like a blade. "Fine," he said, almost detached. "But remember this—Clarissa is the only woman I’ll ever love. You’re just... a means to an end."

The world spun, my knees threatening to give way. I couldn’t bear to hear another word. Turning on my heel, I fled, my breath shallow, my vision blurred by tears.

***

The elevator ride down felt interminable, but when the doors finally opened, the grand hotel lobby greeted me with an overwhelming display of opulence. Red roses cascaded from every corner, their fragrance cloying. Chandeliers sparkled as though mocking my misery and staff bustled around, adding finishing touches to the lavish decor.

A young waitress, seemingly new, paused next to me, her eyes wide with awe. "Is there a wedding happening here?" she whispered to another staff member.

The older employee chuckled, her tone carrying pride. "Don’t you know? It’s for our boss, Mr. Harry and his wife. Their seventh wedding anniversary is in five days. This celebration has been in the works for months!"

My stomach twisted at the irony. They were talking about us.

The waitress’s jaw dropped. "Mr. Harry? As in the Harry? The one people say every woman dreams of marrying?"

"Exactly," the other woman said with a grin. "Their love story is legendary. He built a skyscraper named after his wife! It’s like a fairy tale."

A bitter laugh threatened to escape my lips. A fairy tale? The prince, my husband, was upstairs betraying me, while I was still drowning in the illusion of his perfect devotion. Memories flashed before me: the extravagant wedding, the love-filled social media posts, the way he showered me with affection, always making me feel like I was his world.

It was all a lie.

***

By the time I stumbled back into our home, the weight of betrayal crushed me. Tears streamed down my face, but I wiped them away hurriedly as our family doctor entered the room.

"Time for your injection, Mrs. Simson," she said softly, holding up the syringe.

I froze, staring at the thick needle. My heart ached as fresh tears welled up. Six months ago, when Harry discovered he had "weak sperm," I had willingly undergone grueling IVF treatments for him.

The daily hormone injections, the endless medications—I endured it all because he said he wanted a child. Our child. I used to be terrified of needles, but I forced myself to be brave. The bruises, the allergic reactions, the weight I’d gained—it didn’t matter. I wanted to make him happy.

But now I knew the truth. His sperm wasn’t weak. He wanted a child, yes, but not with me.

I was still sitting numbly on the bed when the door burst open. Harry rushed in, his face a mask of concern.

"Clarissa," he breathed, his voice softening as he approached me with a single rose in hand. "I’m sorry. I’ve been so busy planning our anniversary that I almost forgot your injection today."

He knelt beside me, his warm hand covering mine as he placed the rose in my lap. "You’ve been so strong through all this," he murmured, his dark eyes searching mine. "Let me handle it this time."

Before I could respond, he gently took the syringe from the doctor’s hand, dismissing her with a polite nod. "I’ll do it myself," he said.

Harry had insisted on giving me my injections personally from the start. He’d even gone so far as to take lessons on administering them. It was one of the many ways he’d shown his "love."

But now, as he prepared the needle, his touch careful and practiced,