On our fifth wedding anniversary, Shawn Quinn brought home a pregnant young mistress, Julia Rowe. Julia gloated, "Heard you married him by getting pregnant back in the day, huh? But yours is a bastard. As for my baby, he locked me in the villa for two whole months, never left my side, and only stopped chasing me until I got pregnant with this child!" I listened to her brag with perfect calm. This was nothing new. Over the five years of our marriage, Shawn had brought different women home again and again, each one more openly humiliating than the last. I had my hysterics over this before, too. Once I stormed up to him, screaming and crying, our newborn—only a month old—tucked in my arms. Shawn just smiled with contempt and said, "I was away on a two-day business trip back then. That's a difference of three minutes and twenty-one seconds from your calculated conception date. You're sure this child is mine?" "You should be grateful I still love you enough to put up with your betrayal." Just then, the new mistress stroked her belly and headed for the master bedroom. Shawn smiled softly and stuffed a bank card into my arms. "Take good care of her. She's the most obedient. This is for your trouble." This time, I did not fly into a rage. I simply tucked the card away safely. He had forgotten—the divorce date we agreed on in the prenuptial agreement was only three days away now. This rotten marriage, this suspicious, cheating husband—I was done with them for good.