The next twenty-four hours were a blur of adrenaline, nausea, and meticulous planning. The twin pregnancy was making itself known, twisting my stomach into knots and leaving me bone-tired, but I refused to let it slow me down.
At 4:00 PM the next day, I sat in Evelyn’s high-rise office downtown. The city sprawled out beneath the floor-to-ceiling windows, a grid of concrete and ambition.
Evelyn, wearing a sharp crimson blazer, walked in and slid a thick manila envelope across the polished mahogany table.
“You were right,” Evelyn said, a fierce, respectful grin spreading across her face. “Peyton isn’t pregnant.”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “You’re sure?”
“My investigator is very thorough,” Evelyn said, tapping the envelope. “She didn’t visit an OBGYN. She visited an aesthetics clinic in North Scottsdale three days ago. She paid cash, but she used her real name on the intake forms.”
I opened the envelope. Inside were copies of intake forms, receipts, and a printed screenshot of an email.
“What did she buy?” I asked, scanning the medical jargon.
“A minor surgical procedure to implant a saline bump,” Evelyn explained, her tone laced with disgust. “It’s a temporary, subdermal saline injection designed to mimic early pregnancy bloating. Usually used by actresses for film roles. She’s also been buying fake ultrasounds off a novelty website based in Florida. The shipping address matches David’s new luxury apartment.”
I stared at the receipts. The undeniable, paper-trail proof of a woman so desperate for wealth and status that she was willing to fabricate a human life.
“I have everything I need,” I said, sliding the papers back into the envelope.
“Lauren, listen to me,” Evelyn said, leaning across the desk, her expression turning serious. “Once you drop this bomb, there is no going back. David’s family will implode. And if David tries anything physical, you call the police immediately.”
“He won’t,” I said, standing up. “He’s a coward. Cowards don’t fight when the lights come on.”
At six-thirty that evening, I stood before the towering wrought-iron gates of the Vance estate.
I hadn’t dressed like a victim. I wore a sleek, tailored black dress—the kind of dress you wear to a very expensive funeral. My hair was pulled back perfectly, my makeup flawless. I looked nothing like the weeping, discarded wife Eleanor expected. I looked like an executioner.
The security guard at the gate, a man who had known me for years, looked surprised but buzzed me in without a word.
I parked my car behind a row of Mercedes and Lexuses. I walked up the sweeping stone steps and pushed the heavy oak front door open.
The foyer smelled of expensive stargazer lilies and roasted duck. The ambient sound of a classical string quartet played softly from hidden speakers. The clinking of crystal glasses and hushed, gossiping laughter drifted from the formal dining room down the hall.
I took a deep breath, the manila envelope cold against my side, and walked down the long hallway. My heels clicked rhythmically against the Italian marble floor, a steady drumbeat of impending doom.
Chapter 7: The Lion’s Den
2 months before I told my husband I was pregnant, he had a secret vasectomy. he accused me of cheating, drained our bank accounts, and left me for his mistress. He brought her to my first ultrasound to force me to sign away our house. “Tell me how far along this bastard is,” he sneered at the doctor. His mistress smirked. The doctor stared at the monitor, then looked dead at him. At that moment, I still didn’t know the most devastating shock was waiting for me at the ultrasound.
Part 6 of 8
