He Bred Heirs, I Chose a New Groom

Sophia's POV

I handed the signed divorce agreement back just as my husband's seventh mistress, Irene Lawson, was wheeled out of the delivery room.

Without a second thought, my husband, Jonathan Shaw, shoved past me and rushed to her side.

The impact hit my still-healing abdomen, sending a sharp pain through me. My face turned pale.

No one noticed. Instead, everyone crowded around Irene and asked if she was all right.

I leaned against the wall and slowly made my way back to my office.

The moment I spotted the miscarriage report on my desk, tears filled my eyes.

Three days before Jonathan's seventh illegitimate child was born, I had another threatened miscarriage.

It was the third child I'd lost.

While I was writhing in pain on the operating table with no family member to sign my critical condition notice, Jonathan was at the opera house where we'd fallen in love.

On the third day of my recovery, he dragged me out of the hospital bed at 3:00 am just so I could deliver his newest mistress' baby.

His bloodshot eyes followed me as I was pulled toward the delivery room.

"Sophia, Irene's still young. She doesn't know what she's doing. You're the only person I trust," he sobbed.

That was the moment I silently changed into my scrubs.

I stopped fighting back.

Unlike the last few times, I didn't scream at him or demand answers.

I even stopped swearing I'd rather take off my white coat and be condemned for abandoning my duty than walk into that delivery room.

Instead, I personally wheeled my husband's mistress into surgery as if she were any other patient.

After ten years with Jonathan, I could tell that he had truly fallen in love this time.

I reached out and gently touched the photo of Jonathan and me.

His face was bruised and one of his arms was in a cast, while the other was wrapped around me. He was grinning from ear to ear.

My trembling finger slid from its frame.

Written in carefree strokes on the back were the words "I'll protect Sophia forever."

I had just turned 18 when my gambling-addicted father sold me to a brothel.

Jonathan had saved me. He was beaten so badly that he broke his arm and could never play basketball again.

Yet, while he was in the hospital, he pulled me in for a photo with a huge smile to celebrate my birthday.

"Don't worry. I'll protect you from now on."

I traced my fingers over his face in the photograph and muttered, "You saved my life once, and I gave you three children. We're even now."

I tore the photo into pieces and threw them into the trash.

A knock came at the door.

Jonathan walked in. His eyes immediately landed on the empty picture frame.

"Where's our photo?" he asked.

Before I could answer, he excitedly held out his phone. "What do you think about this name for the baby?"

The moment I saw the name on the screen, it felt like someone had crushed my heart.

Years ago, he'd spent night after night flipping through books to find the perfect name for our first child.

One of those names was now engraved on our baby's headstone.

He had forgotten the name we'd chosen for our first child.

I studied his face. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and his eyes were filled with tenderness.

It was unmistakably the joy of becoming a father again.

That was when I finally accepted that he had truly forgotten that we had once had a child.

Our baby had lived for only 37 days. He was born with a genetic disorder, so he was frail from the very beginning and never made it through his first winter.

"Sophia?"

Jonathan called my name when he noticed that I was lost in thought.

The smile on his face faded. "I thought you'd made peace with this by now. I've told you that I need an heir. If you loved me, you'd understand that—"

"Use this one." I cut him off, pointing at his phone.

Jonathan followed my finger.

He froze, but just as he was about to speak, a commotion erupted behind him.