The Pink Car of Betrayal

My husband unveiled a custom pink car on live TV, calling it a "tribute to our love."

The internet hailed him as the perfect man.

But I knew the truth.

That car was the exact place he cheated on me with his VP, Keri.

And the lipstick stain on the passenger seat wasn't mine.

He thought I was at home, waiting to celebrate his success.

Instead, I was at a clinic, signing a waiver to surgically remove my memories.

I aborted the child he desperately wanted.

I smashed the jade locket he claimed bound our souls together.

I burned my passport, my license, and every photo of us in the kitchen sink.

When he finally came home, he found nothing but an empty house and a gift box containing the remains of our unborn child.

A year later, he crashed my engagement party in Charleston, falling to his knees and begging for forgiveness.

I looked down at the weeping billionaire and felt absolutely nothing.

"I'm sorry, sir," I said calmly.

"But do I know you?"