My name is Raymond Mendez. For eight years, I was married to Lucy—a quiet, good woman who waited for me with dinner even when she knew I smelled like lies.
We could never have children.
Or so I believed.
Every month brought another negative test, another appointment, another shattered hope.
Eventually, I blamed her.
“Maybe the problem is you, Lucy.”
She only lowered her eyes.
Then Valerie Towers entered my life in Miami. Expensive heels, heavy perfume, and confidence.
She made me feel alive.
Four months later, she said:
“Ray… I’m pregnant.”
I nearly fell to my knees.
It was everything I had wanted.
That day, I decided to leave Lucy.
But my father suffered a heart attack. The cardiologist warned that bad news could k:ill him.
So I stayed married on paper while living with Valerie in my heart.
Lucy knew.
