VIVIAN

I woke up to a tattooed arm draped across my waist.

Derek didn't have tattoos.

I took in the unfamiliar room. Cream walls, boring art, curtains that looked nothing like the ones Derek and I had bought together for our home. My head pounded.

The last thing I remembered was Claire's housewarming party last night. I was drinking orange juice—just orange juice, because I'm seven months pregnant—and then... nothing.

Terror clawed up my throat as I turned. The man beside me had his face half-buried in the pillow as he slept. Dark hair, strong jaw, and those tattoos covering his entire right arm in intricate patterns.

My stomach lurched.

"Nathan?" I whispered.

My stepbrother. My father's son from his second marriage. I haven't seen Nathan Lancaster in eight years since he disappeared after a screaming match with Grandfather about his "wasted potential."

I looked down and we were both naked.

Oh God. Hell no.

I slid out of bed, wincing as my pregnant body protested. My dress, my bra, my undie were all scattered across the floor. I dressed frantically, hands shaking so badly I could barely work the zipper.

This can't be happening. I love Derek more than anything. We've been trying for a baby for three years. The IVF finally worked and I'm seven months pregnant with our miracle babies.

I would never cheat. Especially not with my stepbrother.

The room door exploded open. I screamed, spinning around, one shoe on and one off.

Camera flashes exploded like grenades behind me. Voices overlapped:

"Mrs. Morrison, what do you have to say about the affair?"

"Is the baby your brother's?"

"Mrs. Morrison, you were just announced as CEO of Lancaster Industries—"

"How long has this been going on?"

Nathan's eyes flew open. We stared at each other for three seconds of pure horror. He sat up, clutching the sheet to his chest.

"We've been having an affair," he said loudly, to the cameras. "For years, we've been in love with each other.”

"STOP LYING!" I screamed. "This isn't—I don't know how—"

A reporter shoved a phone in my face, showing me a headline already trending: "LANCASTER HEIRESS CEO CAUGHT IN BED WITH STEPBROTHER."

My hands found my belly protectively. The twins. Oh God, my precious babies, my marriage, my CEO position.

"Get out," I told the cameras, pushing past them. "All of you. Get OUT."

As I ran out, I knew I had to choose which part of my crumbling life to save first.

My husband Derek, who I'd fought to marry against my grandfather's wishes. I'd spent three years loving him while trying to get pregnant and he was finally going to be a father.

Or my CEO position at Lancaster Industries, the role my grandfather had ripped from me three years ago when I married "beneath my status." The role I'd just won back after years of proving myself. One week. I'd been CEO for one week.

No, Derek is more important. I have to explain myself.

But my phone vibrated in my hand.

Grandpa: "Come to the boardroom."

The Lancaster Industries building looked exactly the same as it had yesterday, except yesterday, I'd walked through those doors as CEO.

Today, I was escorted to the boardroom by security.

My grandfather stood at the head of the table, surrounded by board members whose faces I'd memorized, and approval I'd finally won.

Harold Lancaster built this empire from nothing, and he'd never forgiven me for marrying Derek Morrison; a junior analyst from a poor family who'd had the audacity to love his granddaughter.

"Grandfather, I can explain—"

"Can you explain THIS?" He threw a tablet onto the table. My face stared back at me from a dozen websites. "Lancaster CEO in Incestuous Affair."

"Pregnant Heiress Caught with Stepbrother."

"Lancaster Industries Stock Plummets After Scandal."

"It's not what it looks like. I was drugged and possibly even assaulted. You have to believe—"

The slap came so fast I didn't see it coming.

My head snapped sideways. The boardroom went silent. Seven months pregnant, and my grandfather had just struck me in front of his entire executive team.

"You have shamed the Lancaster name once again," he said quietly.

"I didn't do anything—"

"Effective immediately, you are removed from your position as CEO." He wouldn't even look at me. "You will not return to this building. You will not represent Lancaster Industries in any capacity. Security will escort you out."

"Grandfather, please—"

"OUT."

The security guard's hand on my arm was rough. I let him drag me through the building I'd fought so hard to claim. Past the office with my name on the door.

In the lobby, I tried calling Claire. Straight to voicemail.

My hands shook as I scrolled through my contacts. Who could I call before facing my husband?

No one else to give me the emotional support I needed, because I'd isolated myself for three years, trying to prove I was worthy of the Lancaster name. Trying to be the best wife and granddaughter.

I took a cab home, my mind racing. Derek would believe me. He had to believe me. We'd finally gotten pregnant through IVF after so many failures. He'd held me while I cried through every negative test, every failed cycle, every disappointment.

He loved and trusted me.

The house was quiet when I arrived. Derek's car was in the driveway, which meant he was home. Hopefully he hadn't seen the news yet and I could explain before—

I heard groans coming from our bedroom.

My feet moved on their own, carrying me down the hallway lined with wedding photos and to the door of the bedroom I'd shared with my husband for three years. I opened it.

Derek, in his suit, sat in the leather armchair by the window where he liked to read business journals while I got ready for bed. Claire straddled him, her dress hiked up around her waist, riding him.

They were too consumed with each other to notice me.

"God, I'm so glad this is almost over," Claire panted. "Hiding from her was exhausting."

"Soon," Derek groaned, his hands gripping her hips.

"She drank the juice without even questioning it," Claire said. "God, she's so easily deceived."

"That's what I love about her," Derek replied. Then he laughed. "Loved. Past tense."

“I… can't… wait to get our… beautiful twins from her. Before she figures out we switched the eggs… the babies will be ours."

The world stopped after I heard those words.

The eggs... switched?

"Vivian deserves this. Walking around like she's better than everyone, with her perfect hair and her perfect manners and her perfect life."

It was them. All of it. The setup, the photographs, everything.

And my babies...

My hands flew to my belly. No, that can't be. They are mine. They are mine!

That's when I screamed, but it came out as something between a sob and a scream.

They froze and turned. Claire's eyes widened, while Derek's face paled.

"Vivian," Derek said. "This isn't what it looks like."

I laughed. It sounded hysterical even to my own ears.

"Really? Because it looks like you're sleeping with my best friend in our bedroom, while I'm pregnant with what I thought were our children."

Claire dismounted casually, fixing her dress. No shame, just a cold smirk.

"Well," she said, "I guess we don't have to pretend anymore."

Derek stood, tucking himself back into his pants. "Vivian, sit down. We need to talk."

"Talk?" My voice rose. "You want to TALK?"

"Don't be dramatic—"

"Dramatic? You switched the eggs! My babies—" I clutch my stomach, "—they're not even mine?"

"Technically, they're mine and Derek's," Claire spoke so casually while examining her nails. "You're just the incubator."

I lunged at her. I didn't care that I was pregnant, didn't care about anything except scratching that smug expression off her face.

How dare she refer to me as an incubator?

Derek caught me, his hands like iron on my arms.

"Stop it. You're going to hurt yourself."

"Let me go!"

"Not until you calm down and listen."

"I'm leaving." I tried to pull away. "I'm leaving and I'm taking my babies—"

"Where?" Derek's voice went cold now. "Where will you go, Vivian? You have no job, and your grandfather disowned you this morning. I'm all you have left."

"I'd rather die than stay here with you!"

"Dramatic as always." He forced me toward the bed. "Sit down. Now."

"No! I'm leaving—"

I bolted for the door but Claire grabbed the back of my dress, yanking me backward. I was off balance, pregnant and clumsy. Then I stumbled. My head hit the edge of the dresser. Pain exploded across my temple.

The last thing I heard was Claire saying, "Is she dead?”

The last thing I saw was Derek's face hovering over me, his expression not concerned, but calculating.

Then everywhere went dark.

DEREK

I stood over Vivian's unconscious body, her head bleeding onto our expensive persian rug. Claire hovered behind me, chewing her bottom lip. It was a nervous habit that usually irritated me but today just makes her look concerned, which was good. We'd need that for the hospital.

"Should we call an ambulance?" Claire asked.

"Obviously." I pulled out my phone, already composing my worried-husband expression. "But let me check something first."

I knelt beside Vivian, pressing two fingers to her neck. Strong pulse.

"Is she okay?"

"She's breathing. But we need to make this look right." I glanced up at her. "You pushed her."

"It was an accident! She was going to leave—"

"I know. But we need our stories straight. You weren't here. You left right before she got home. I was downstairs when I heard a crash. Understood?"

She nodded, already grabbing her purse. "I'll go out the back."

"Wait." I caught her arm and pulled her in for a quick kiss. "This doesn't change anything. We're still together, and we are close to winning this together."

Once she left, I looked down at Vivian again. Blood pooled beneath her head, matting her dark hair. She looked innocent as always. That's what made her so easy to manipulate.

I met Vivian Lancaster five years ago at a company event. She was twenty-four, beautiful, and recently disowned by her grandfather for "thinking too independently."

Harold Lancaster wanted her to marry within their social circle. Vivian wanted to choose her own husband.

Enter me: Derek Morrison, junior analyst, ambitious, charismatic, and completely wrong for a Lancaster heiress.

I pursued her carefully. Flowers, thoughtful gifts, long conversations about her dreams. I listened to every word about how much she wanted to prove herself to her grandfather, how much she wanted to run Lancaster Industries someday.

And when she finally said yes to dinner, I knew I'd won.

The sex was good enough. The companionship was bearable. But what really excited me was the Lancaster name and fortune.

I married her six months later in a small ceremony that Harold refused to attend. Vivian cried, but I held her and promised we'd prove them all wrong together.

What she didn't know: I'd been with Claire since high school. Claire Chen was old money fallen on hard times. Her family lost everything in a shipping scandal ten years ago. She went from debutante to barely scraping by.

Claire and I never broke up when I started pursuing Vivian. Why would we? Vivian was the means to an end. Claire was the end.

The plan was simple. Marry Vivian, get access to Lancaster Industries, use that access to build my own reputation, divorce her when the time was right, then marry my one true love.

Five years of planning on both sides, and it was ecstatic just how close we were to reaping the fruits of our labor.

I called 911 now, putting panic into my voice.

"My wife fell! She's seven months pregnant and she's bleeding from her head. Please hurry!"

The ambulance arrived in eight minutes. At the hospital, they rushed her to emergency. The babies' heartbeats were strong. Her vital signs were stable.

But she didn't wake up.

"Head trauma," the doctor explained. "We've done a CT scan. No skull fracture, but significant concussion. She may wake up in a few hours or a few days. We'll monitor her closely."

"And the babies?"

"Perfectly fine. Your wife's body protected them."

Of course it did. Vivian has always been resilient. One of the things that made her so useful.

I sat in her hospital room, watching her sleep. At midnight she finally woke up.

When she looked at me, I made sure I had tears in my eyes.

“Vivian,” I squeezed her hand lightly. “Thank God. I was so worried.”

She flinched, pulling her hand away as if I'd scalded her.

‘Shit!’

Then her brow furrowed, those familiar amber irises fixed on me.

“Who are you? Who am I?” Her voice was a dry rasp.

My chest tightened.

“This is a trick,” I thought. She's trying to make me think she lost her memory.

But when I looked at her eyes again, I saw the vast canvas of confusion. A slow burn of satisfaction lit inside me.

Game over.