His Pregnant Mistress Revealed He Drove My Mother to Suicide

I buy a scanner at Staples on my way home.

The apartment is empty. It's always empty now. I set up the scanner on the dining table and feed the printout from Dr. Huang through first. The machine hums. The light passes underneath. I save the file with the date in the name. Then I scan the supplement bottles from every angle. The label. The handwriting. The lot numbers on the bottom.

I photograph the freezer bag. The pills inside. The way they catch the light.

I open my laptop and create a folder. Title it *Medical Records*. Drag everything inside. Then I back it up to three different cloud accounts.

My hands don't shake.

I pull up the viral post next. Screenshot it. Scroll through the comments. Hundreds of them. Some congratulating Saige. Some asking who the woman in the background was—me, at the hospital. Someone has already identified me. Posted my name. My old Instagram handle.

I screenshot those too.

Then I open a new document and start writing. Date. Time. Location. What I saw at Cedars-Sinai. The way Dominic's hand rested on her back. The laminated certificate. The ring. Saige's voice carrying across the waiting room. Every detail. Every word I can remember.

I write for two hours.

When I finish, I print it. Sign it. Scan it.

Then I start searching.

The Montgomery Foundation's tax filings are public record. I pull up the last five years. Page through the donation logs. The expense reports. There are gaps. Small ones. A conference in Monaco that cost eighty thousand dollars with no attendee list. A consulting fee paid to a shell company in the Caymans. A real estate purchase in Saige's name that doesn't match any property records I can find.

I make notes. Cross-reference. I email a contact from the legal aid clinic I volunteered at in college. She emails back in an hour with three more leads.

By midnight, I have seventeen pages.

I hear Dominic's key in the lock at twelve forty.

I close the laptop. Slide the papers into a folder. Stand and walk to the kitchen like I was making tea.

He stops in the doorway. Looks at me. "You're still up."

"Couldn't sleep."

He nods. Sets his bag down. "I'm going to take a shower."

"Okay."

He walks past me. Doesn't ask what I'm doing. Doesn't look at the table.

I wait until I hear the water running. Then I take the folder to the closet and hide it under the winter sweaters next to the supplement bag.

When I come back out, the kettle is boiling. I pour the water. Watch the steam rise.

I don't make tea. I just stand there.

---

The reunion invitation came three weeks ago. I almost threw it away.

Now I'm standing in front of my closet trying to decide what you wear when you're about to walk into a room full of people who have already seen the video.

I choose the black dress. Simple. Long sleeves. I do my makeup carefully. Not too much. Just enough to look like I tried.

Claire texts when I'm putting on my shoes.

*You don't have to go.*

*I know,* I reply.

*Want me to come with?*

*No. But thank you.*

She sends back a heart.

I drive downtown. Park two blocks away. Walk slow.

The restaurant is one of those places with exposed brick and Edison bulbs. I can hear the noise from the sidewalk. Laughter. Music. The sound of people who haven't seen each other in years pretending the years were kind.

I stop at the door.

Press my thumbnail into my palm.

Then I walk inside.

The hostess checks my name. Hands me a name tag. I stick it to my dress and move into the crowd.

Conversations pause. Eyes track me. I feel them like hands.

Jenny Tran appears at my elbow. "Lena. I wasn't sure you'd come."

"I wasn't either."

She squeezes my arm. Doesn't say anything else. Doesn't need to.

I get a drink I won't finish and stand near the back. I see faces I recognize. Some smile. Some don't. A few people come over and make small talk that dies fast.

Then the room shifts.

Saige walks in.

She's wearing white. A wrap dress that shows the curve of her stomach. Her hair is down. She glows. That's the only word for it. She moves through the room like light through water and people turn toward her.

She sees me immediately.

She smiles.

She walks straight over.

"Lena," she says. Her voice is warm. Surprised. Delighted. "I didn't think you'd be here."

"I went here too," I say.

"Of course you did." She touches my arm. Her hand is soft. "How are you? I've been so worried."

The conversations around us have stopped.

"I'm fine," I say.

"Are you?" She tilts her head. "I can't imagine what you're going through. It must be so hard."

I don't answer.

She drops her hand to her stomach. Rubs it in a slow circle. "I know this situation is complicated. But I want you to know—Dominic and I never meant to hurt you. These things just happen sometimes."

Someone coughs.

"He's been so supportive," Saige continues. "So present. He comes to every appointment. He's already talking about names." She leans closer. Her voice drops. "I know it must be painful. Especially after everything you've been through. All those losses. I can't imagine how inadequate that must make you feel."

The room is very quiet.

"But you have to understand," she says, "some women's bodies just aren't made for this. It's not your fault. It's just biology."

She squeezes my arm again. Gently. Like she's comforting me.

"I hope you can find peace with it," she says. "I really do."

Then she steps back. Smiles at the room. Touches her belly one more time.

And walks away.

No one speaks. No one moves.

I stand there with my drink and my name tag and the weight of every eye in the room.

Then I set the glass on the nearest table.

And I walk out.