The Good Wife

                 POV: Vivienne Ashford

I sat on the edge of the examination table at St. Catherine’s General Hospital, the crisp sanitary paper crinkling under my thighs. The antiseptic smell of bleach and iodine hung thick in the air, a scent I had come to despise over the last two years.

Dr. Victoria Bennett slipped off her latex gloves and tossed them into the biohazard bin with a quiet sigh. Her gentle eyes met mine, filled with that familiar, aching pity I knew all too well.

"Everything looks structurally healthy, Vivienne," Dr. Bennett said softly, tapping her pen against my chart. "No blockages, normal hormone levels, healthy ovulation. Physically, there is no medical reason why you haven't conceived after two years of trying."

I swallowed past the lump in my throat, pulling my coat tightly around my shoulders. "Then why isn't it happening?"

"Fertility isn't a mechanical equation," she reasoned gently. "Stress is a massive factor. Running a multi-million-dollar corporation like Ashford Technologies while carrying the weight of an entire family—it takes a toll."

Stress. She didn't know the half of it.

I thanked her, took my updated records, and stepped out into the quiet marble corridor.

When I married Damon Pruitt two years ago, I thought I had found my sanctuary. I was twenty-eight—a workaholic CEO who had built her late mother’s cloud software company into a market powerhouse. My father had spent years gently nudging me to settle down and give him a grandchild before his hair turned entirely silver.

Then came the rural land development project in Pine Hollow. I had gotten lost on a back road, asked a handsome local man for directions, and fallen head over heels for his easy charm. Damon was breathtakingly handsome, soft-spoken, and seemingly devoted.

I brought him into my world. I made him Vice President of Ashford Technologies, bought his parents a grand home in Sterling Heights, and welcomed his mother, Loretta, and his two younger sisters, Kayla and Brianna, into my private estate, Ashford Manor.

I loved him to a fault. Eighteen months into our marriage, after another failed pregnancy test, I blamed myself for my inability to give him an heir. To prove my devotion and give him security, I gifted him five percent of my personal company shares—a stake worth tens of millions. He signed the papers without even reading the fine print.

I spent two years catering to his family’s endless demands. I let his mother dictate the daily meal menus at the Manor. I smiled when his sisters used my credit cards for five-figure designer shopping sprees. I even turned a blind eye in board meetings when Damon propped his polished Italian leather shoes onto the mahogany conference table, scrolling through his phone while senior directors presented quarterly earnings.

I am a good wife, I had told myself every night. Marriage requires sacrifice.

Four months ago, overwhelmed by my mounting workload, I asked Damon to help me hire a new personal secretary. The next morning, he introduced twenty-four-year-old Camille Rowe—a stunning girl with doe eyes, glossy dark hair, and an innocent smile. She was a close friend of his sister Kayla. I hired her instantly.

This morning before leaving Ashford Manor, I had asked Damon to come with me to St. Catherine’s for my checkup.

“I have an important client lunch in the afternoon, Viv,” he had demurred, kissing my cheek with lukewarm affection. “You know how crucial this pipeline is. Go ahead without me.”

I walked down the quiet fifth-floor hallway toward the hospital elevators, intending to head straight to the office. But as I passed the specialized maternity and prenatal wing, a familiar laugh echoed from behind a glass-paneled consultation room.

I froze.

The voice was unmistakable. Rich, deep, and dripping with playful amusement.

Damon.

My chest tightened. I took a step back, hiding behind a wide pillar near the door, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

Through the narrow glass gap, I saw them.

Damon was sitting on a plush leather sofa, his arm wrapped tightly around Camille Rowe’s waist. My secretary—the woman I paid a generous salary, the woman who took notes in my morning executive meetings—was leaning against his shoulder, giggling softly.

A middle-aged doctor in a white coat, Dr. Evelyn Moore, smiled at them across the desk.

"Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Pruitt," Dr. Moore said, handing over a printed ultrasound strip. "The gestational sac looks healthy and firmly implanted. Miss Rowe is exactly four weeks pregnant."

Damon pulled Camille onto his lap, pressing a deep, passionate kiss onto her lips right in front of the doctor.

"Four weeks..." Damon breathed, his voice thick with pride as he caressed her flat stomach. "A baby. A real heir. You did what my frigid, sterile wife couldn’t do in two whole years."

Camille smirked, tracing his jawline with her manicured fingernails. "She’s so clueless, Damon. She actually thought I earned those extra bonuses for hard work. If she only knew you bought me that new Louis Vuitton handbag last week..."

"Let Vivienne keep playing CEO," Damon sneered, laughing. "She’ll keep paying for our luxury, and once your belly starts showing, I’ll force her to hand over more shares to secure our child's future."

The floor beneath my feet felt like it had collapsed into a dark, bottomless abyss.

The sterile air burned my lungs. Two years of unrequited devotion, two years of swallowing my pride for his leeching family, two years of crying tears over my supposed infertility—all reduced to a cruel, humiliating joke.

I backed away into an empty utility alcove, pressing my palms against my mouth to stifle the agonizing sob tearing through my throat. I sank against the tiled wall, tears pouring down my cold cheeks.

Frigid. Sterile. Clueless.

My phone buzzed in my bag. It was a calendar notification: Executive Board Meeting at 2:00 PM.

I wiped my wet face with the back of my hand, staring at my reflection in the dark screen of my phone. The fragile, naive wife who endured insults for the sake of 'love' died right there on the linoleum floor of St. Catherine's Hospital.

I pulled up my contacts and dialed Genevieve Winslow, my closest friend and one of the sharpest corporate defense lawyers in Valmora.

She picked up on the third ring. "Vivienne? Are you okay?"

"Genevieve," I said, forcing the tremor out of my voice. "Cancel your afternoon. I need a divorce, and I want to take back every single cent I ever gave Damon Pruitt."

"Meet me in thirty minutes," Genevieve answered instantly. "Where are you?"

"First, I'm making a stop," I whispered, staring blindly out the window toward the glittering skyline of Westbridge City. "I'm going to get drunk."