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.”

VIVIAN

I made a choice when I regained consciousness in that hospital room. I'd let them think they'd won.

I'd spent three years being the perfect wife to Derek Morrison. The perfect granddaughter to Harold Lancaster. The perfect friend to Claire Chen. Being perfect and getting destroyed for it.

So I decided to be something else: invisible.

I played the role of the confused amnesia patient flawlessly… while recording everything.

The small voice recorder hidden in my bra—I'd retrieved it from my old belongings. Who knew I'd need it someday—captured every conversation.

Every night, when Derek has snuck into Claire's room, I accessed his laptop with his passwords I'd memorized.

Grandfather made me start at the bottom of Lancaster Industries, working my way up through every department. I know how to be thorough.

In his laptop, I found so many files.

IVF records of Claire's harvested, stored and transferred eggs. Handwritten medical notes from our fertility doctor: "Payment received, will proceed with egg switch as discussed and be discreet."

Every night, I fought back tears whenever I opened his laptop. The conspiracies and discoveries were just too much. Even the prenuptial agreement I'd read and signed it hastily on our wedding day suddenly had a clause I never noticed:

"In the event of marriage dissolution, should Party A (Vivian Lancaster-Morrison) fail to fulfill reproductive obligations as mutually agreed upon, Party A will be financially responsible for all IVF-related costs including but not limited to medical procedures, facility fees, and potential damages not to exceed $5,000,000."

I never agreed to be a surrogate.

But if I'd signed this document, and they have medical records claiming I consented to Claire's eggs...

They've built a legal trap. If I try to leave, I'll owe them millions I don't have. My trust fund is controlled by Grandfather, and he's disowned me.

I'm stuck, and I can't even snap this as evidence or email it to someone. Derek has my phone.

Finally, hope shined on me.

“My mom just got back,” Derek said. “You two have always been best buds.”

That was true. She'd always been kind to me, sympathetic about my struggles with Derek's other family members accepting me. And most importantly, she despised Claire.

Patricia would see through this and help me.

The next day, Patricia arrived. She hugged me carefully, mindful of my belly.

"Vivian, sweetheart. Derek told me about the amnesia. How are you feeling?"

"Confused," I admitted. "Can we talk privately? Scared new mother to experienced mother?”

Derek and Claire exchanged glances.

"Aww, my scared little daughter," Patricia gave me another hug. "Let's go to the garden."

We sat on the bench Derek had bought me for our first anniversary.

I took a deep breath. "Patricia, I need to tell you something. I've been lying."

"Lying?"

"About the amnesia. I remember everything." The words tumbled out in a rush. "Derek and Claire have been having an affair. They switched the eggs and they're planning to take my babies. I've been recording their secret conversations and I have evidence. I just need help getting out, getting to a lawyer, stopping them before-" my voice broke and tears began falling as I fell my head.

"You stupid girl," she said quietly, patting my back.

My heart stopped. My head snapped up and Patricia's face had changed. Gone was the warmth, the sympathy. What remained was something dangerous.

"Do you think any of this would be possible without me?"

“What?”

"Did you really think my son came up with something this sophisticated on his own? I orchestrated everything. The surrogate plan was my idea." Her voice dropped with contempt now.

I couldn't breathe. It was too much to take in.

"But... you always adored me."

"I was acting. Just like you've been acting." Patricia's smile was cruel. "The difference is, I'm better at it."

"Why?"

"Because everything about you irritated me. Your kindness felt like mockery. Your wealth felt like condescension. The way you 'helped' Derek's family, like we were your charity project. The way you made it so obvious you were the rich heiress marrying down." She stood. "You deserved this. You deserved to be used the way you used us."

"I never used-"

"You used Derek as a rebellion against your grandfather. You used your wealth to make yourself feel superior. You used your position to make us feel small. Now we're using you to get what we deserve."

Patricia pulled out her phone. "Derek? Claire? Come to the garden. Vivian has something to tell you."

No. No no no.

"Please," I whispered. "Please don't-"

"Oh, and Vivian?" Patricia smiled. "I'll take that recording device now.”