“I only have a year to live. Marry me, bear me a son, and your family will never struggle again,” the wealthy landowner told the poor milkmaid.
She was only twenty, living in poverty with her sick mother while her father sat in prison over unpaid debts. With no money for food or medicine, she felt she had no choice. The rich, confident forty-year-old promised to free her father and secure their future. He claimed doctors had given him a year at most.
She agreed, telling herself it wasn’t for the money—he would die soon anyway, and her family would be saved.
The wedding was quiet.
But on their wedding night, unable to sleep in the cold, unfamiliar house, she wandered down the hall and noticed a light in his office. The door was ajar. On the desk lay medical papers. She hadn’t meant to look—but the words caught her eye.
The report stated he was in satisfactory health, with a favorable prognosis. No fatal illness.
Beside it was a legal contract: if she bore him a child within a year, the inheritance from a wealthy relative would pass to the heir. If not, the marriage would be annulled, and she would leave with nothing.
There was no illness. No tragedy. Only a condition tied to his inheritance.
He had lied, exploited her desperation, and planned to discard her once she served her purpose.
By morning, horrified and betrayed, she fled the house.