Seven Kidnappings My Husband Arranged

Summary

For three years of marriage, the "Wife’s Seat" decal on the passenger side of Preston Moore’s car had been a permanent fixture. It was a brand, a claim, a lie.

I found the prenatal exam results tucked in the glovebox. It wasn't mine.

When I confronted him, Preston didn’t even look up from his tablet. He was as cool as the marble countertops in our kitchen. "It’s a prop, Nora. My parents are breathing down my neck for an heir. Don’t read into it."

A few weeks later, at a high-stakes business gala, I watched him peel shrimp for his assistant, Lacey, with a tenderness he hadn't shown me in…