I Stole My Wife’s Secret Son,After She Killed Our Baby

I paused, savoring the way his face drained of color, then twisted the knife one final time.

"Remember this—your child was miscarried. Do you understand?"

I barely breathed the word miscarried, yet it cut through me like shattered glass.

"No!"

Nathaniel seized the vase from the nightstand and hurled it at my head.

"You're lying! That's my child! Mine!"

Serena appeared in the doorway, her expression strained.

"Rena, you can't let him take our baby!" Nathaniel turned to her, desperate. The word our scraped across my eardrums like a blade.

Serena's gaze shifted to me, conflicted.

"Otis..."

I leaned close to her ear and murmured, "The East River development site. Your grandfather has his heart set on it. And it just so happens to be in the hands of a very good friend of mine."

Her body went rigid.

That land was the cornerstone of the Ashford family's strategy for the next decade—and the key to proving her worth to Old Mr. Abbott.

She whipped around to face me. Fury. Resentment. And beneath it all, a flicker of fear.

She drew a slow breath, then turned to Nathaniel. "The child... stays with Otis. It's the only way to make this legitimate."

I addressed my assistant without looking back.

"Mason Grant. Bring the boy to my car."

I walked out of the hospital room and dialed another number.

"Handle every loose end."

"I need a medical certificate confirming my wife Serena Abbott suffered an accidental miscarriage. And I need a new birth certificate for the child—mother's name: Serena Abbott. Father's name: Otis Wiley. No one else."

Behind me, the room erupted—crashing furniture, screaming, and Nathaniel's raw, guttural howls tearing through the corridor.

I looked down at the boy who'd been forced into my car.

He stared back at me with eyes exactly like Serena's—wide with fear, sharp with hatred.

My lips curved into a smile that held no warmth at all.

Serena was discharged soon after. Her body came home. Her heart stayed with Nathaniel.

Her phone screen glowed constantly—message after message from that man.

Rena, I miss Evan so much. Can't you make him give our baby back?

I don't want anything else. I just want our child.

Rena, I can't go on. His people shoved me that day—I hit my head. The doctor says I have a concussion. Am I going to die?

The pretty boy knew exactly how to play her.

He never attacked me directly. Instead, he painted himself as the suffering victim, pining for his stolen child—making me look like the monster, the heartless villain.

Every time she read his messages, the crease between her brows deepened. Then she'd invent some excuse and slip away.

One morning, Serena was gone. The boy was locked in his room.

And Nathaniel appeared at my doorstep like a ghost, his eyes venomous.

"Don't think you've won, Otis."

"That unlucky child of yours? I'm the one who made Rena get rid of it."

"That night, she'd been drinking. She kept calling me, over and over."

"All I did was mention that your baby would become an obstacle for me someday."

"I told her to spend more time with me."

"I never expected her to hang up and book the procedure right then. After that, well..."

"Your child is gone because you couldn't hold onto it. Don't blame anyone else."

"You're just raising my son for me. Don't celebrate too soon."

He smirked, satisfied with himself, and turned to leave.

Every word seared into me like a red-hot brand.

So that's how it happened.

I closed my eyes. My hands trembled at my sides, fingernails digging into my palms until the taste of iron flooded my mouth.