She Chose the Baby. He Chose His Mistress.

The instant I entered the mansion, the familiar scent of roses enveloped me—but beneath it was a foul undertone, the unmistakable odor of betrayal. My body was still fragile, scarcely recovered from the hospital, yet what I found inside stripped away whatever little strength remained in me.

A sharp crack echoed through the hall.

My mother’s hand had struck my cheek.

“You killed my grandchild!” Sasha screamed, her voice trembling with fury.

I staggered back, clutching my burning face. This was the same woman who once looked at me with pride when she confessed that I was her true daughter. Now her eyes burned with hatred.

“You couldn’t even protect your own baby! Worthless!” she spat. “You should’ve never gotten pregnant if you were too fragile to handle it!”

“I tried,” I whispered, barely audible. “I did everything I could.”

Sasha scoffed. “Camille would’ve never let that happen.”

And then Camille appeared—serpent-smooth, her smile gentle and her tone dripping with false concern. “Mother, please… don’t be too harsh on her. Serena didn’t mean for this to happen. She’s just… unwell.”

“Stop defending her,” Sasha snapped. “You’ve always been the better one, Camille. So perfect. So dependable. Serena was a mistake from the start—”

My chest tightened.

“—I regret ever telling the family she was my real daughter. I should’ve left her where she came from.”

Camille’s lips curved, soft and poisonous. “Don’t worry, Mother. I’ll give you a grandchild soon.”

Sasha’s anger melted into pride. “Whoever gives me an heir will inherit everything.” Her icy gaze turned back to me. “Tomorrow’s the anniversary party. Don’t embarrass me again.”

She left, her perfume lingering like poison in the air.

Moments later, Richard walked in, dressed to perfection, his voice smooth as ever. “Don’t worry,” he said to Sasha’s retreating figure. “I’ll handle my wife. She’ll behave. It’s an important day—for both the merger and the family.”

Sasha nodded approvingly before disappearing down the hall.

That night, Richard brought dinner to my room—chicken soup, my favorite. His tone softened, pretending remorse. “I’m sorry, Serena. About the baby. About everything.”

I said nothing. I’d heard this act too many times before.

Then his phone rang. His expression shifted when he saw the caller ID. “Camille?”

Her voice shrieked through the speaker. “Richard! I twisted my ankle! Please, come help me!”

Without hesitation, he set the bowl down. “I’ll be back soon. Rest, alright?”

The door clicked shut.

I got up and began to pack. Quietly, deliberately. My few cherished belongings went into the bag—letters, an old photograph, my father’s scarf. Then I opened a wooden box filled with the remnants of our life together: love notes, movie tickets, dried roses. Lies pressed between pages of pretend affection.

I carried the box to the garden. The night was still, the air cold. One by one, I fed each memory to the flames.

As the fire grew, I remembered our beginning—my eighteenth birthday, when Richard first danced with me under the chandeliers. I’d been young, hopeful, ready to believe in love. Camille had smiled and said, “You deserve him, you’re the real daughter.”

A lie that changed everything.

Tears blurred my vision. I wasn’t mourning Richard or even the baby. I was mourning the foolish girl I once was.

Then—pain.

A sudden shove sent me stumbling forward, my arm grazing the fire. I screamed as heat seared my skin.

“Oops!” Camille’s bright, mocking voice cut through the night. “I didn’t mean to! You were too close—I just wanted to help!”

The throbbing in my arm was unbearable, but worse was the satisfaction gleaming in her eyes.

“I swear I was trying to stop her!” she cried, feigning panic. “She was throwing things into the fire and almost fell in herself!”

The door burst open. Richard came running, phone in hand. “What the hell happened?!”

“She’s still upset,” Camille said quickly, tears glistening in her eyes. “I tried to calm her, but she wouldn’t listen. Then she pushed the box too close—look what happened!”

Richard’s glare landed on me. “Serena! Are you trying to create a scene before tomorrow? Haven’t we talked about this?”

I could’ve screamed the truth. I could’ve told him she pushed me. But what was the point?

I met his eyes—those same eyes that once made me believe in safety—and whispered, trembling, “You truly disappoint me.”