My Ex-Husband Thinks My Daughter Is His,Until the Billionaire Father Shows Up

As the young nurse spoke, her eyes shone with undisguised admiration for Martin and undisguised envy for Mrs. Barnes.

I smiled but said nothing.

The current Mrs. Barnes was indeed very happy.

She had a husband who loved her, parents who doted on her, and a baby on the way.

She was practically the center of everyone's universe.

Almost no one knew she'd been the other woman who clawed her way to the top.

My phone buzzed, snapping me back to reality.

Sorry, something urgent came up at work. I'll pick you up a bit later.

I typed back with a slight smile:

Take your time. I'll grab a cab.

Almost the second I hit send, a reply popped up:

Be careful on the road. Text me when you get home.

I put my phone away and noticed that snow had started falling outside at some point.

I waited for a long time, but no drivers responded to my ride request.

Honk!

A car horn sounded behind me.

A black Porsche Cayenne slowly pulled up beside me.

I recognized it immediately as Martin's car.

His license plate was Diana's birthday.

And my birthday was just one day after hers.

The passenger window slid down, revealing Martin's sharp jawline.

"Get in. I'll give you a ride."

I glanced at the ride app still spinning uselessly, thought about it for a few seconds, then opened the back door and got in. I gave him the name of my apartment complex.

I really was exhausted today and just wanted to get home and rest.

Besides, with this sudden change in weather, the scars on my palm and abdomen were aching and itching.

A free ride was a free ride. Why not take it?

Martin had an intense sense of territory over his space.

Back then, I wasn't even allowed to put a small trinket in the car.

Now.

The interior was filled with the scent of gardenias—Diana's favorite.

Everything I could see was decorated in pink—Diana's favorite color.

When he saw me sitting in the back, Martin laughed bitterly.

"So you really are treating me like a chauffeur?"

My voice was flat. "I just don't want your wife to get the wrong idea."

Those three words—"your wife"—acted like a silencing spell. Whatever Martin had been about to say, he swallowed it back down.

The car fell into a suffocating silence.

I stopped talking and turned my head toward the window.

Lights and shadows flickered outside, and in that haze, my mind drifted back to that day seven years ago.

The darkest day of my life.

It was my third wedding anniversary with Martin.

I'd been away on a business trip, but I caught a red-eye flight home to surprise him.

Instead, I stumbled upon Martin and my sister Diana in the middle of their affair.

They were in my marital home. In my marital bed. Tangled together.

They were so lost in each other that they didn't even notice me standing in the doorway.

Not until Diana happened to turn her head.

"Ruth!"

Diana's eyes went wide, and she screamed.

I thought Martin, caught red-handed, would at least be flustered. Ashamed, maybe.

But no.

Martin didn't rush to explain himself to me.

Instead, he gently pulled the covers over Diana, hiding the marks all over her body.

"Weren't you supposed to come back tomorrow?"

Martin didn't show a hint of guilt. If anything, his tone was accusing.

Back then, I had a temper like wildfire. I couldn't tolerate even a grain of sand in my eye.

In that moment, rage and hatred nearly burned away every last shred of my sanity.

I went hysterical, like a madwoman, attacking them with the most vicious words I could find, smashing everything in the room that could be smashed.

The room was destroyed.

Diana hid behind Martin, trembling.