The Price of My Devotion

To save Ethan, I nearly destroyed my own chances of ever carrying a child. Eight years of marriage, and he treated me with endless, gentle devotion. Until I discovered he had built an entirely separate family long ago—he even had a daughter. On the night of the Miller family’s grand banquet, I prepared two identical gifts for him. One for the woman he truly loved, and one for himself. He thought I was still that fragile, sickly wife who couldn't survive without him. He had no idea that I had already let go. Ethan, what you owe me is far too heavy for a simple divorce decree to settle. Elena POV As I hung Ethan’s suit jacket in the closet, my fingertips brushed against an inner pocket and found a velvet jewelry box. It was a surprise he had secretly prepared. That very evening, Ethan’s phone lit up on the nightstand, and I saw a woman named Madelyn. In the video, a little girl around four or five wrapped her arms around his neck, her voice bright and clear as she chirped, "Daddy!" Ethan had a family on the outside. He had for a long time. Years ago, when Ethan fell into freezing water, I defied my family’s warnings and dove in to drag him to safety. The bitter cold wrecked my health, leaving me chronically frail and weak. The doctors broke the news early on: it was unlikely I would ever bear children. Now, my only plan was to divorce him. My lawyer had already drafted the agreement. I willingly waived everything—no alimony, no shared property, walking away clean. Walking out of the firm after finalizing the paperwork, my hands didn't shake once. Ethan ran the Miller publishing and media empire. Everyone told me how lucky I was to marry him. Over fourteen hundred doses of health tonics, and Ethan never missed a single day, personally measuring each one out for me. I used to believe that when a man attended to a sickly woman with such care, there had to be genuine love behind it. Tucked deep in my nightstand drawer were seven pregnancy tests. The double pink lines grew clearer with each one. I had planned the timing meticulously. I wanted to hand the positive tests to him in person, curious whether he would frown first or instinctively reach for my medication kit. Now, I had no intention of letting him know this child existed. The pet fish I had kept on the balcony for five years were given away on Craigslist earlier today. I was only waiting for the grand Miller gala to wrap up. Ethan came home early that evening. He tied on an apron, headed into the kitchen, and brought out the birthday cake and creamy mushroom soup he made for me once a year. Setting the plate in front of me, Ethan sliced the cake. He pulled out a chair and sat down, studying my face. "You lost weight again. Did you skip your supplements behind my back?" I shook my head, picked up my fork, but didn't take a bite. Ethan smiled. "What day is it? You didn't forget your own birthday, did you?" "I remember," I said. Ethan placed a slice on my plate. "Just that? Usually, you start talking about this cake two weeks in advance. I spent all afternoon baking it." "I know. Thank you for your hard work." I cut a piece with my fork, placed it in my mouth, and chewed slowly before swallowing. Ethan ladled more soup into my bowl until it nearly spilled over the rim. He had baked this cake every year for eight straight years, never missing once. I used to look forward to this day, believing that this handmade cake was something only I in the entire world got to taste. If a multimillionaire was willing to spend an entire afternoon in the kitchen for someone, that person had to be his one and only. I treated that gesture as proof of his love, cherishing it for years. Now, that proof felt like a slap in the face. If he could stand in the kitchen all afternoon for me, he could cook for another woman at a different dining table. If he could do it for both, then both were worthless. I took a sip of soup, tasting nothing. Over the years, Ethan never let me worry about his family's affairs. Through forty-seven public banquets, he held my waist firmly every time we walked through the doors, telling everyone my health was delicate. Behind closed doors, people sneered. They whispered that a childless wife occupying the Miller name would eventually have to make way. I heard plenty of those rumors. Ethan always shut them down, and back home, he would gently hold me, telling me not to take it to heart. Back then, my heart felt warm. Knowing someone shielded me made enduring the chronic illness feel worthwhile. Now, looking back on those sneers, the outsiders hadn't been wrong at all. Sitting at the dining table, my mind calmly checked off the list: my lawyer's name, the hospital appointment confirmation, the pickup time for the fish. I had no intention of screaming or demanding an explanation. There was no need to listen to another layer of lies. Every sweet word he spoke would just force me to peel back three layers of deceit to find the truth, and I didn't want to endure another single day of that. Ethan kept ladling soup into my bowl, telling me to drink up and build my strength. I looked up at him. The man before me looked no different from the struggling young man years ago, handsome and gentle. I really wanted to see how that composed, perfect face would shatter when he heard that name. My steady gaze made Ethan pause, his fork hovering midair. I set my spoon down. Looking at the cake I had eaten for eight years, my voice was as flat as checking the weather. "Madelyn likes your cake too, doesn't she?"Elena POV The smile on Ethan’s face froze instantly. After less than half a second, he smoothed over the stiffness, reaching out to cover my cool hand. "What are you talking about? Have you been cooped up inside letting your thoughts run wild?" Ethan searched my eyes. I didn't pull away, letting him hold my hand. His tone softened to a gentle murmur. "Between organizing the family gala, work has piled up like a mountain. I’ve neglected you lately. Once this week passes, I'll clear my schedule and take you to the lake house for a while, okay?" He spoke with complete sincerity. Not a single flaw showed in his eyes. I followed his thread. "Since I'm bored, why not invite Madelyn over for dinner tomorrow? I’d like to thank her in person for lightening my load all these years." The fingers resting on my hand stiffened violently. Ethan’s mouth twitched into a forced chuckle. "Don't be ridiculous. Why bring some irrelevant outsider into our home?" "Oh?" I met his gaze dead-on. "You don't even have the courage to share a meal with her?" Ethan picked up his water glass, took a long drink, his throat bobbing, but he couldn't find an answer. I didn't push him further. I pulled my hand back, reached into his jacket hanging over the back of the chair, pulled out the velvet jewelry box, and placed it on the table, sliding it right under his nose. "My wrists are too weak to tie the ribbon. Wrap it up for me so you can hand it to her yourself," I said. Ethan stared at the box, his breathing noticeably heavy. I waited for him to speak. Even if he panicked and asked what it was or where I found it, I could pretend he still felt a shred of shame after being caught. In the past, even if I handed him a grocery note, he would read it over three times. Ethan didn't ask a thing. He picked up the velvet box, lowered his eyes, and smoothed the ribbon. His long fingers were steady, practicing a routine he had clearly done hundreds of times. I opened the side drawer, pulled out another gift box wrapped identically, and slid it alongside the first. "At the gala, in front of everyone, you will hand this to Madelyn," I said, looking down at his dark hair. "Not a second early, not a second late." Ethan’s hands paused briefly before he gathered both boxes into his palm. "Okay. Whatever you want," he said. Sitting across from him, I watched him tie a neat, square bow. In Ethan's eyes, I had long been conditioned into a helpless invalid, someone who didn't even have the right to suspect him. The very last hesitation in my chest dissolved. There was no need for an explanation. He couldn't afford the truth, and I found it sickening. After dinner, Ethan cleared the table. While doing the dishes, he went over the details for the gala, reminding me that high-profile guests would be everywhere and that I shouldn't stand for too long, insisting I stay by his side at the head table. Sitting in the dim living room, I murmured soft agreements. Ethan’s phone buzzed. He dried his hands, checked the illuminated screen, and turned around with a calm expression. "Elena, the press room has an urgent editorial deadline. I’ll take this on the balcony." He pulled the sliding glass door nearly shut behind him. Through the crack, I heard his voice drop low—a tenderness I hadn't heard from his lips in years. "...That cake was just something I made for her because of her condition. Don't take it to heart." Ethan coaxed gently, "I already cleared the main seats for the gala. I'm taking both of you. And the pink backpack Naya wanted, I had my assistant bring it back from New York. I didn't forget." From the receiver came faint muffled sobs, a woman complaining about him fussing over a useless invalid all day. Ethan chuckled softly, his tone infinitely patient. I sat in the darkness, listening to every single word. A birthday cake baked once a year was a sacred comfort to me, but in his words, it was merely an offhand chore. One moment he promised to take me to the lake to clear my head, and the next he was on the balcony promising to spend the entire gala by their side. From the same mouth, facing different directions, spilled nothing but lies. I used to worry about how hard Ethan worked, thinking he bore every storm outside just to protect me. Today, I finally understood. He navigated two separate lives with effortless ease, and on my end, I was nothing more than a prop to maintain his image as a devoted husband.Elena POV The call didn't end there. I heard a little girl’s voice leak through the speaker, brightly calling him Daddy. "Daddy, when are you coming home? Mommy said you're bringing me a new backpack." Ethan’s voice softened instantly. "I'll be back as soon as I wrap up. Be a good girl, Naya." The woman on the other end murmured something, and he chuckled low in his throat. I stood behind the door, making no sound, keeping my breathing completely level. All these years, he told me my body was too weak to carry a child. He told me not to dwell on it, saying a lifetime of just the two of us was more than enough. And I believed him. The fourteen hundred doses of bitter tonic he personally prepared, I drank every single drop without flinching, even when the bitterness numbed my tongue, because I thought he just wanted to keep me alive. I had even felt guilty, believing I took up the title of Mrs. Miller without ever giving him an heir, eating that annual birthday cake with a heavy conscience. The phrase he always kept on his lips—that my body couldn't handle carrying a baby—really just meant he didn't want a child born from me. For that little girl outside, Naya, he remembered every detail about a backpack. And when she called him Daddy, his answers were sweet and gentle. All those years of guilt had been entirely wasted. I leaned against the doorframe for a long time, my nails digging into the wood, unable to squeeze out a single tear. When he finally came to bed, he rolled over toward me and rested his hand on my waist. Noticing I hadn't moved, he asked, "What is it? Not feeling well again?" "Just exhausted today. Go to sleep first." I shifted back slightly. He didn't push. He withdrew his hand and, following his nightly ritual of eight years, pulled the light throw blanket up over my shoulders, tucking it in tight, then smoothed down the corners of the duvet. He leaned close to my ear. "I’ll stay right by your side during the gala. Wherever you want to sit, I'll save it for you. If you get tired, just lean on me." "Okay," I whispered, facing away from him. The blanket pressed against my shoulders, so warm it sent a cold shiver down my spine. That very hand had comforted another woman and child earlier tonight, and now it returned, smoothing my blanket with effortless routine. I used to count that nightly gesture as proof of his love, night after night. Tonight, I saw it clearly: it was merely a checklist item he had to complete, an obligation that freed his mind to drift toward the other side. Late into the night, Ethan's breathing evened out beside me. I slipped out of bed without turning on the lights. Walking into the study, I slipped the signed divorce decree into a thick manila envelope and neatly wrote out the mailing address for the front desk at Miller Group. Then, pulling out my phone, I dialed the private clinic number I had saved earlier. "The morning after the gala, please schedule me for another prenatal checkup." As I pressed the stamp onto the envelope, my fingertips were completely steady. When it was done, I went back to bed. The man beside me rolled over in his sleep, his hand brushing against the edge of my blanket. I didn't flinch away. I kept my eyes open, watching the pale horizon outside the window. I wouldn't make a scene. I would just wait for the gala to end. The next morning, before heading out, he took an old watch from the drawer and strapped it onto his wrist. I had spent hours picking out the strap for that watch years ago, and I had always treated it as something that belonged strictly to us. Holding a glass of water, I walked over, let my hand slip, and knocked the glass against his wrist, chipping the glass face of the watch. "I'm sorry. It's cracked now, so don't wear it out. Put on a different one," I said, glancing down. "Isn't this the strap you picked out for me? I can still wear it," he said, checking the damage. "It looks sloppy with a crack. Put on a new one. You have meetings today, don't give people an excuse to whisper," I answered. He took the watch off, set it aside, pulled another one from the drawer, and kissed my forehead before leaving. He didn't even ask why I was so insistent on him switching it. Standing by the door, I listened to his car drive away. The faint warmth lingered on my forehead, and I wiped it off with the back of my hand. I refused to let that watch leave this house because nothing I chose belonged in that other home of his. I hadn't kept much for myself over my lifetime. Piece by piece, I was taking it all back. Without alerting anyone, I went downstairs, hailed a cab, and followed his car across half the city. I wanted to see what kind of life they lived. The car drove through the familiar streets before turning into a new development across town, finally stopping in front of a modern residential complex. The windows of an apartment on the third floor were glowing with warm light. I stared through the taxi window for a long time, until my eyes stung. All these years, I needed him by my side wherever I went, needing his arm just to walk into a banquet. I thought that was what being husband and wife meant. Today, I trailed his car across half the city all on my own. He didn't know, and no one asked where I had gone. It turned out I was entirely capable of coming this far by myself. "Turn around, please," I told the driver. The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror, wisely keeping his mouth shut.Elena POV Early the next morning, I returned to the front of that building. Before long, Ethan’s car pulled up to the entrance. A woman walked out holding a little girl's hand. He hurried over, bent down, scooped the child into his arms, and spun her around. The little girl giggled, wrapping her arms around his neck and refusing to come down. Setting the child down, he turned, smoothed the woman's windblown hair, and kissed her lips. The movement was effortless and natural, an intimacy I had never witnessed in all the years I had known him. Sitting in the cab across the street, watching through the glass, I didn't step out, nor did I tell the driver to honk. Later, I learned he used the chaos of gala preparations as an excuse to take them on a brief getaway, claiming he wanted to dodge social obligations. The money he transferred over—I caught a glimpse of it on his phone later—had eight zeroes trailing behind it. Madelyn posted on Ins. In the photo, the three of them were huddled close, his cheek pressed against the little girl's, the caption proudly announcing that this was what a real family looked like. A flood of likes piled up beneath it, with comments saying the child had his exact eyes and that they couldn't wait for the wedding. Standing in the wind outside the apartment complex, I suddenly recognized the gift in his suit pocket. A month ago, he had looked me in the eye and said he had a grand surprise for me at the gala, telling me to guess what it was. For an entire month, I had actually tried to guess. I wondered if it had something to do with the three walls of vinyl records, or if he was planning a grand toast in front of the entire crowd. I had even planned out which dress to wear. The grand gift he spoke of was meant to be handed to another woman at the gala. My month of eager anticipation had merely been borrowed excitement meant for someone else. I thought of the handwritten notes he had given me over the years, saved one by one in a tin box on the nightstand—over three hundred cards. I used to hoard them like treasures, but now every line felt colder than ice. The fact that he could write over three hundred of them only proved that cheap words took no effort at all. I didn't storm inside, nor did I call him. I simply turned around and went home. The first thing I did when I got back was call a local charity. The three walls of vinyl records he had collected for me—starting from the albums I loved in my youth—he always said he gathered them so I would have my memories kept safe. He claimed it was to keep my memories safe, and I foolishly believed it, treating it as something that uniquely belonged to me in this house. Only today did I realize those three walls were just decor for other people to admire. All he wanted was the reputation of a devoted husband. Things meant purely for show, I no longer wanted. The movers carrying a stack of records turned to ask me, "Ms. Vance, are you sure you don't want any of these?" "Take everything. Donate the turntable with them," I said. Standing before the empty walls, I watched them pack box after box, donating every single piece, leaving nothing behind. When Ethan pushed the door open later that evening, he said he had seen the donation receipt at the office. Seeing the three bare walls, he froze. He hurried over and grabbed my arm. "What happened here? Where did you send these records? I spent years tracking them down one by one for you!" "I gave them away," I said. "Gave them away? Why didn't you talk to me first? These things have been with you for years!" His voice rose. "Would talking to you change anything now?" I slowly slid my arm out of his grip. "Elena!" It was the first time he had ever raised his voice at me like that. "What are you throwing a fit about? Did I do something wrong? Tell me, and I'll fix it." "You did nothing wrong," I looked at him, my voice flat. "I just don't want those things anymore." "Don't want them? When you're sick, I watch over you day and night. When you're bored, I take you to the lake. When you wanted records, I hunted through the whole city for them, and now you just say you don't want them?" He gestured at the empty walls, furious. "Yes," I said. "Then what do you want? Tell me, and I'll give it to you," he pressed, staring at me. "I don't want anything anymore." "How have I ever mistreated you all these years?" His voice trembled. "When you were sick, I stayed. When you were lonely, I kept you company. And now, with one word, everything is gone." Every point he listed was true, I could hear it. Except he had given those exact same things to someone else, and with far more joy. "Ethan," I called his name, calmer than I had ever been. "The person you were watching over was never me." "What did you say?" "Nothing. Go to bed early." I turned and walked upstairs. He reached out to pull me into a hug, but I stepped aside, avoiding his touch. His mouth opened, but no words came out. There was a time when a single glance at him told me if he was tired. Today, looking at him, I saw nothing at all, and I had no desire to look any longer.Elena POV Regarding the cleared walls, Ethan only asked the next day if I was still upset. Coming home from work, he brought the pastries I used to love, sat down beside me, cut them into neat little squares, and pushed the plate toward me. He smiled. "Stop torturing yourself. I have a surprise prepared for you at the gala. You'll understand then." "What surprise?" I looked up at him. "I can't tell you yet." He squeezed my hand. "Just dress up nicely, stay close by my side, and you'll have everything. I'm sorry for making you endure so much over the years." That last sentence sounded remarkably sincere. I nodded, agreeing quietly, just as I had for the past eight years, never causing him an ounce of trouble. When he slipped into bed that night, I closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep. He turned toward me, watching me for a while, before gently pulling the light throw blanket from the foot of the bed up to my shoulders, his touch so light he seemed terrified of waking me. After tucking me in, he sat on the edge of the bed for a moment before quietly stepping out into the hallway. I opened my eyes in the dark, listening to his hushed voice through the door, keeping my breathing slow and steady. He whispered, "Yeah, I'm heading over now. Is Naya asleep? Don't stress, I'm driving over to get you. I already sorted out the dress and jewelry for the gala." Whatever the woman replied, it drew a low laugh from him. He added, "If Naya asks, tell her Daddy will be right there with her, standing next to her mommy." I pulled the blanket up a fraction, hiding half my face. The surprise he promised me during the day and the person he rushed out to pick up at night were the exact same thing. He told me to dress up and sit obediently by his side, yet that very spot belonged to me by day and to another woman by night. He shut the front door softly behind him, barely making a sound. I waited until his car engine faded into the distance before getting up, slipping into my clothes in the dark, heading downstairs, and calling another cab to follow him. Seeing a pale, sickly woman walking out alone in the middle of the night, the driver checked his mirror twice, but kept quiet. I wanted to see what kind of family gala this really was. The car didn't head toward his usual apartment. It drove straight toward the outskirts of town, stopping before the historic Miller estate where the banquet was being hosted. My taxi idled in the shadows beneath the trees across the street. Right under the courtyard lights, I immediately spotted Chloe’s car, its headlights still gleaming. Sitting in the cab, my heart sank inch by inch. His mother, his sister, the entire Miller family—they had all gathered behind those doors, happily preparing for the celebration. All these years, I thought that no matter how little affection they held for me, I was still Mrs. Miller. What he hid from me wasn't just a woman. It was a whole house full of people conspiring together to keep me in the dark, keeping the secret so airtight that not a whisper ever reached me. I used to hope that someone in that family would eventually speak up for me. Tonight, I gave up that hope. Not a single soul in that house would ever say a word on my behalf. The invitations for tomorrow night had already been sent out, and my name was listed among the guests. He had even reminded me today not to overexert myself, never mentioning that a seat in the main hall was already reserved for another woman. Sitting in the shadows, looking at the brightly lit doors, I whispered softly, "I'll be there." The driver didn't catch it and asked if I wanted to head back. "No," I said. "Just stay here a little longer." I needed to see it all with my own eyes. Only after seeing it could I walk away completely, otherwise, on some future night, I might wonder if I had simply misunderstood him. Pulling out my phone, I looked at his message from earlier—*I'm sorry for making you endure so much over the years*—one last time, and deleted it. Then I slipped the phone back into my pocket, never taking it out again.Elena POV The night of the gala, I showed up. I wore the outfit he picked out for me and sat quietly in the chair he directed me to. Ethan adjusted the light shawl over my shoulders and had someone place a warm glass of water by my hand. "Your health is delicate, don't push yourself. Stay right here, don't wander off. Once I'm done greeting guests, I'll come sit with you." With that, he walked away, spending the entire night by another woman's side. Sitting in the corner cradling the warm cup, I watched the center of the main hall. Right in front of everyone, Ethan’s mother slid a multi-generational heirloom ring onto Madelyn’s finger, holding her hand and announcing to the crowd, "From this day on, you are part of the Miller family, and the family affairs will rely on your care." Guests crowded around with congratulations. "I hear Madelyn is expecting? What wonderful news for the Millers!" "Elena has occupied the position of Mrs. Miller for years with that sickly body. It's about time she stepped aside." "Exactly. She couldn't even give him an heir. The moment Madelyn arrives, a son is on the way." The voices weren't quiet. It felt as though they were meant for my ears. I lifted my coffee cup, my hands steady, my eyes cast down, simply blowing at the foam on top. Ever since I married into this family, I always told myself that once my health improved, that ring would eventually be passed to me—a physical proof that this family accepted me. The proof I had waited years for was placed onto another woman's finger tonight. And I, the legal wife, was abandoned in a corner chair, without a single person coming over to say a word to me. Suddenly, the host's voice rang through the microphone: "Next, please welcome Mr. Miller to present a token of his heart to his beloved wife tonight!" The chandeliers dimmed, leaving a single spotlight on him. He stepped to the center of the stage holding the microphone, his gaze sweeping the room. "My wife’s health has been delicate all these years, and I’ve stayed by her side through it all. People say Ethan Miller built a successful empire, but I know deep down that without her, I wouldn't be standing here today." He paused, his voice softening. "She is the most important person in my heart. No one compares." Applause erupted across the hall, punctuated by cheers. "Mr. Miller really is one of a kind!" someone shouted. "Now that's a true marriage!" Sitting outside the light, watching that seemingly devoted man on the stage, a tiny, fleeting part of me actually believed I was the one held close to his heart. I knew it was pathetic, but for that split second, it felt real. Cradling the cup of water, my eyes grew hot. I thought that even if he had an entire life outside, at least this crowded room heard those words. At least these years hadn't been an absolute waste. Until he stepped off the stage, carried the bouquet used during the speech, and walked over to the other side of the room. The cup in my hand froze midair. I watched with my own eyes as he placed the bouquet into Madelyn’s arms, leaned down to her ear, and repeated the exact words—*the most important person, no one compares*—word for word, down to the exact same inflection. The guests on that side burst into applause as well, offering congratulations, praising how well he treated Madelyn, calling them a perfect match. In a single evening, before two rooms full of guests, he handed out the exact same romance to two different women. Sitting in my chair, my fingernails dug so hard into the armrest that my knuckles went white, a suffocating weight crushing my chest. That fleeting warmth from moments ago became something I never wanted to remember for the rest of my life. The dignity I held onto before this crowd was merely a line he could recite once and immediately recite again. I treated it as a treasure; he treated it as a script. I didn't cause a scene. I stood up, hailed a cab, and went home alone. Back at the house, I took the tin box from the nightstand, took out all three hundred handwritten notes, and spread them across the floor. Sitting on the floor, I tore them to pieces one by one, then lit a fire in the bronze basin out in the courtyard. The flames curled around each scrap, turning the cards he had written, the sweet words I had treasured for years, into piles of ash. I burned them slowly, leaving not a single one behind. I had read these three hundred cards countless times. On nights when sickness kept me awake, I would pull one out to read, telling myself I could hold on a little longer. Tonight, I realized every single card was a lie. Everything that had kept me alive until today was built on deceit. When the last card burned, I realized my cheeks were wet. I wiped them dry, refusing to let out a sob. The box was empty. I closed the lid and set it back on the nightstand. I counted the days once more. The gala was over; the remaining tasks would be settled one by one, and then I would leave.