Exclusive contract I sold myself for my freedom

On the first anniversary of my daughter Maya's death, I went to her grave, feeling the chilling Chicago wind but nothing else.

My husband, Ethan, was supposed to be with me, but he texted that "something urgent" came up.

When I returned to our penthouse, the sound of a child' s laughter filled our home. It wasn't a memory.

There, on our sofa, was Ethan, not alone. A woman with bleached blonde hair, Nicole, sat beside him with a toddler, Leo, on his lap. My breath hitched. The boy had Ethan' s eyes.

Ethan, caught off guard, stumbled through introductions.