Beatrice summoned me to her sitting room one Sunday, the air thick with wine, and looked at me with a rehearsed and theatrical sorrow.

“Loretta, you and Christopher have been married seven years now.” “That’s correct,” I said, keeping my spine rigid.

“And yet your arms are still empty,” she sighed.

“A woman can climb the corporate ladder all she likes, but if she cannot give her husband a family, she has failed him at the most basic thing.

Christopher needs an heir to his empire.

If the two of you are emotionally bankrupt, perhaps it is time you released him.”