He Chose A Fake Heir Over His True Wife

The penthouse was quiet-the heavy, suffocating silence of a tomb before a resurrection.

I packed a single bag.

Just the essentials:

Cash.

Passport.

And the diamond necklace I had stolen back from my own life.

The electronic beep of the front door shattered the stillness.

Alex walked in, humming a low, cheerful tune.

He was laden with shopping bags-pastel blue, pastel pink, unmistakable branding from exclusive baby boutiques.

He dumped them onto the sofa with a careless flourish.

"Cat?" he called out.

I walked out of the kitchen.

I was dressed in jeans and a black sweater, looking every bit like Kate Jensen.

Alex didn't notice the clothes, nor the grim determination in my posture.

He was drunk on the adrenaline of his own perceived virility.

"I was thinking," he said, pacing the room with manic energy.

"We can make this work. You can be the mother figure."

He gestured vaguely.

"Aria... she's not like us. She doesn't know how to raise DeLucas. You can teach them."

He looked at me with a twisted, earnest hope.

"You can be the mother you always wanted to be."

My stomach churned violently.

He wanted me to raise his mistress's bastards.

He wanted to stitch our lives together into some twisted Frankenstein's monster.

"Where is she staying?" I asked, keeping my voice even.

Alex waved his hand dismissively.

"I'm sending her to Como tomorrow. Just for the pregnancy. Once they are born, she's gone. I promise."

My gaze drifted to the tablet he had carelessly left on the kitchen island.

It was unlocked.

A notification blinked on the screen.

New Email: Capo Giovanni.

Subject: Background Check - Subject A.D.

I walked over to it.

Alex was too busy taking a tiny pair of shoes out of a box to notice.

I tapped the screen.

The email opened, revealing a PDF attachment.

I scrolled.

Subject: Aria Diaz.

Medical History: Hysterectomy, 2019.

Financial Status: $400,000 debt to Albanian loan sharks.

Current Status: Not Pregnant.

I stopped breathing for a second.

She wasn't pregnant.

The ultrasounds were fakes.

The fainting was acting.

She was nothing more than a con artist.

I scrolled down to the intercepted texts between Alex and his lawyer.

Alex: Draft the settlement. Once the babies are here, we keep Aria in Como. Tell Catarina the surrogate miscarried. I want both.

The world tilted on its axis.

He wasn't going to exile her.

He was going to keep her.

He was planning to tell me the babies had died just so he could keep his mistress alongside his wife.

He was going to let me grieve for children that never even existed.

The cruelty was breathtaking.

It was absolute.

I closed the tablet.

The last thread of emotional attachment snapped.

It didn't hurt.

It just vanished, leaving a cold void.

"Alex," I said.

He looked up, distracted.

"Yeah?"

"I'm hungry. Will you cook that steak? The wagyu?"

He smiled.

A relieved, arrogant smile.

He thought I was staying.

He thought he had won.

"Of course, babe."

He walked into the kitchen, taking the expensive meat out of the fridge.

He started searing it in the pan.

The smell of rosemary and garlic filled the air.

It used to be my favorite smell.

Now, it smelled like rot.

His phone buzzed on the counter.

A text from Aria.

Emergency. Bleeding. Come now.

Alex went pale.

He abruptly turned off the stove.

"I have to go," he said, his voice tight.

"Business."

He grabbed his keys.

He didn't even look at me.

He ran out the door, leaving the steak sizzling in the pan.

Half-cooked.

Bloody.

I walked to the stove and turned off the gas.

I picked up the pan.

I dumped the hundred-dollar steaks into the trash.

I grabbed my bag.

I walked to the elevator.

I didn't look back.