To Lay Ruin at the Child's Grave
My husband, Ronan Callahan, the Don of Chicago's largest Irish crime family, violated our wedding vows. He cheated on me with Scarlett Rhodes, the daughter of a rival real estate tycoon, while I was pregnant with his heir.
To appease me and give my Keaton family a plausible story, he claimed he’d broken things off with Scarlett.
My parents pleaded with me, "Now that Ronan has come back to you, for the sake of both our families, don't make a scene."
From that day forward, a crippling mysophobia consumed me. Any form of physical contact would make me gag uncontrollably.
Unable to take any medication, my only recourse was a compulsive need for sanitation. I demanded that everything be sterilized before it came near me.
Ronan, a man notorious for his volatile temper, disinfected himself three times a day for me. If he needed to approach me, he would speak from a safe distance of six feet.
Every time he entered my bedroom, he had to change into sterilized clothes. No matter how tedious the process, he never once complained.
"It's okay, Aveline. I was the one who broke my vow first."
But when I ordered Ronan to wash his hands one more time, he finally shattered. He smashed his whiskey glass on the floor in front of me.
"Enough! What man hasn't made a mistake? Do you have to humiliate me like this? Am I that filthy in your eyes?"
In retaliation, Ronan deliberately invited a rowdy biker gang to our meticulously designed lakeside estate. He saw it as a punishment for my obsession with cleanliness, planning to use my pregnancy to force my submission.
Under the relentless stress, a sharp pain tore through my abdomen. Soon, blood began to seep down my inner thighs, soaking my skirt.
But in that same moment, I felt a strange and startling wave of relief.
"Let's get a divorce, Ronan."