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.

"I'm Derek," I said gently. "Your husband, and father of your twins."

"I..." She looked around the hospital room, horror creeping into her eyes. "I don't remember anything."

The older doctor, one Dr. Adams I'd specifically requested, examined her thoroughly.

"Mrs. Morrison, you've suffered a head injury. Retrograde amnesia is common with this type of trauma. Your memories may return gradually, or they may not return at all."

"Not at all?"

"I'm afraid it's possible. The important thing is to keep you stress-free for the remainder of your pregnancy. Your babies' health depends on it."

I squeezed her hand. "We'll get through this together, darling. I'll help you remember our life."

She looked at me with those wide, trusting eyes. The same eyes that had looked at me three years ago when I'd told her I loved her. I'd meant it then, in my way. She was beautiful and the sex was good.

"My mother called," I told Vivian in the hospital room. "Patricia Morrison. She's flying in from visiting her sister. She'll be here next week. She's been so worried about you."

"I don't remember her either."

"That's okay. We'll help you remember everything." I kissed her forehead. "Rest now. I'll be right here."

Claire arrived twenty minutes later, playing her role flawlessly. "Oh, Vivian! I heard about the accident! Are you okay?"

"I'm sorry," Vivian hesitated. “Do I know you?"

"I'm Claire. Your best friend since after college."

Over the next week, we rebuilt Vivian's world exactly how we wanted it.

I told her about our fairy-tale romance. How I'd swept her off her feet. How we'd married despite her grandfather's objections. How we'd tried for years to have children before IVF finally worked.

I told her about the scandal with her stepbrother Nathan, how it had devastated us both, how her grandfather had fired her as CEO because of it… and she cried.

"We moved past it already, love. Not remembering, It's probably for the best. What he did to you... to our marriage... it's better forgotten."

Claire visited daily, bringing flowers and stories of their friendship. We cut off Vivian's access to the internet and television.

"You heard the doctor," I explained. "Too much stress from news and social media. We need to keep you calm."

Instead, we played games, did exercises, watched movies. Sometimes I rubbed her swollen feet while we watched old movies.

She was so grateful, sweet and so perfectly obedient.

Two weeks after the hospital, Claire moved into our house.

"Housing issues," I explained to Vivian when she asked why our "friend" needed to stay with us. "She lost her apartment. It's just temporary."

Claire immediately began redecorating the nursery Vivian had spent months preparing. She painted over Vivian's sunny color choices, threw out the handmade decorations, replaced everything with expensive designer items.

Vivian watched from the doorway, looking confused but not saying anything.

"Do you like it?" Claire asked, smiling.

"It's... I don't know."

"You said you wanted me to help," Claire lied smoothly. "You said your taste wasn't good enough."

"Did I say that?"

"You don't remember, but yes. You've always known I have a better style."

Vivian touched her belly, looking lost. "Okay. If I said that."

One evening, I found Vivian in the kitchen crying quietly while making dinner.

"What's wrong?" I asked, though I knew. We'd been slowly increasing her confusion, her isolation, her dependence.

"I don't remember who I am," she whispered. "Everyone tells me stories about my life, but they don't feel real. It's like I'm living someone else's existence."

I pulled her into my arms, feeling her pregnant belly press against me.

"You're Vivian Morrison," I said gently. "My wife. The mother of our children. The woman I love. That's all you need to be. My mom just got back. She'd be here tomorrow, okay? You guys have always been best buds.”