I sat in the driver’s seat of my car for ten minutes before I finally went inside. The rain was drumming hard against the windshield, but I didn't feel the chill. My hands were shaking. I looked down at the small plastic wand resting in my palm.

Two pink lines.

Pregnant.

A bubbly, warm feeling expanded in my chest. After three years of a quiet, hollow marriage, I was finally going to give Enzo Shaw a child. I tucked the test safely into my designer purse and hurried into the private parking garage.

The private elevator hummed smoothly, taking me up to the penthouse we shared. I had the whole evening planned out. I was going to make homemade lasagna. I’d carefully peel the organic tomatoes and avoid any heavy spices that triggered Enzo’s chronic stomach ulcers. I would light the expensive candles he liked. I would hand him a small gift box with the test inside.

Maybe, just maybe, this baby would finally make him look at me. Truly look at me. Not as a convenient substitute, but as his wife.

The elevator doors chimed and slid open. I stepped into the foyer and stopped dead in my tracks.

Something was wrong.

The penthouse usually smelled of cedar and Enzo’s sharp, clean cologne. Today, the air was choked with a heavy, sweet perfume. Vanilla and synthetic roses. My stomach did a nervous flip.

I walked further in. A mountain of designer luggage was piled on the pristine marble floor. Louis Vuitton trunks and Chanel garment bags, covered in airline tags from Charles de Gaulle. I gripped my purse tighter and walked into the living room.

And there she was.

Isabella Montgomery. My older sister. The golden child. The woman who had abandoned Enzo at the altar three years ago to chase a glamorous modeling career in Paris, leaving me to take the fall and marry him to save both families from humiliation.

She was sitting on my custom velvet sofa. She looked thinner, but her hair was perfectly styled in effortless blonde waves. She was dabbing her eyes with a tissue. When she saw me, her crying magically stopped. Her red lips twitched into a tiny, victorious smirk.

“Blaire,” she whispered. Her voice was breathy, fragile, and entirely fake. “I’m so sorry.”

Before I could even ask her what she was doing in my home, heavy footsteps clicked against the hardwood floor. Enzo walked into the room.

He wore a tailored charcoal suit that fit his broad shoulders perfectly. His dark hair was slightly messy, and his jaw was clenched tight. For seven years, I had loved this man from the shadows. For three years, I had been his devoted, invisible caretaker. I managed his diets, his home, and his life. I thought my loyalty meant something.

But as he looked at me, his dark eyes were completely empty.

He didn't notice the flush in my cheeks. He didn't see the nervous joy I had brought into the room. He just walked straight up to me, his face a mask of cold indifference, and held out a thick manila folder.

“Sign these,” he demanded. His voice was flat. No greeting. No warmth.

“Enzo?” I asked, my voice trembling slightly. “What is this?”

“Divorce papers,” he said, not missing a single beat.

The words hit me like a physical punch to the gut. All the air rushed out of my lungs. I stared at the yellow folder in his hand, then up at his handsome, unyielding face.

“Divorce?” I choked out. “Why? What happened?”

Enzo sighed. He ran a hand through his hair, looking at me like I was a slow, annoying employee.

“Isabella is back, Blaire. Paris was incredibly hard on her. She went through a terrible ordeal, and she needs a safe place to stay. She needs me.”

He glanced back at Isabella, and for a split second, his cold eyes softened. It was a look he had never, ever given me.

I felt the heat rise in my chest, burning my throat. “She needs you?” I repeated, my voice cracking. “I’m your wife, Enzo. We’ve been married for three years.”

“It was a temporary arrangement,” he snapped, his patience instantly vanishing. “You knew that from the beginning. You stepped in to save face. Now she’s back, and things are going to return to normal.”

Temporary.

Three years of my life. Three years of nursing him through painful ulcer flare-ups, smiling for the paparazzi, and playing the perfect, obedient wife. Reduced to a temporary placeholder, discarded the second the real prize returned.

My hand drifted down, resting instinctively over my flat stomach. The pregnancy test felt like a lead weight inside my purse. I was carrying his child.

“I want you to pack your things,” Enzo ordered, his voice cutting through my thoughts like ice. “I’ve already had my assistant transfer a generous settlement to your account. But you need to be out by tonight.”

I blinked, feeling a sudden, strange ringing in my ears. “Tonight?”

“Yes,” he said firmly. “Isabella is exhausted. She needs the master bedroom.”

I looked past his shoulder. Isabella was watching us. She sniffled delicately, wiping away a nonexistent tear, but her eyes were bright and hard with triumph. She was taking back her favorite toys. And my husband was eagerly handing them over.

The desperate, pleading words died in my throat. I looked at Enzo, really looked at him, and the warm, hopeful bubbles in my chest popped. They were replaced by a sudden, freezing numbness.

I stared at the yellow folder in his hand. My fingers gripped the edge of my leather purse. The plastic test felt heavy inside.

"I can't," I whispered. My voice shook. "Enzo, I can't sign this."

He crossed his arms. The fabric of his suit pulled tight over his chest. "Don't make this difficult, Blaire. I gave you plenty of money."

"It's not about the money!" I cried. I stepped closer to him. "I'm pregnant, Enzo. I took a test today. We are going to have a baby."

The room went completely silent. The rain beat against the tall glass windows. It sounded like tiny, angry drums.

Isabella gasped from the sofa. She pressed a pale hand to her chest. "Enzo? Is that true?"

Enzo didn't look at her. He kept his dark eyes locked on me. A cruel sneer twisted his handsome face. He let out a harsh, mocking laugh.

"Nice try, Blaire," he said coldly.

I blinked. The room spun. "What?"

"Did you really think that would work?" he demanded. He stepped into my space. He smelled like mint and anger. "Did you think a fake baby would keep me tied to you?"

"It's not fake," I pleaded. I reached into my purse. "I have the test right here. I can show you."

He grabbed my wrist. His grip was like iron. "Stop lying."

"I'm not!"

"You are," he hissed. "Because it's medically impossible."

My breath hitched. "What do you mean?"

Enzo let go of my arm. He looked at me with pure disgust. "Two years ago, I had a secret vasectomy. I made sure of it. I swore I would never have children with anyone but Isabella."

He glanced back at my sister. Her fake panic melted into a smug smile. She looked like a cat that got the cream.

Enzo turned back to me. "So, unless you've been sleeping around, there is no baby. And if there is, it certainly isn't mine."

The words hit my brain like lightning.

*Vasectomy.*

It was a lie. I knew his medical records inside and out. I managed his doctor appointments. I tracked every pill, every check-up, every ulcer flare-up. There was no surgery. He was lying just to protect Isabella's feelings. He was throwing away his own flesh and blood just to keep her comfortable.

Then, something snapped inside my head.

A sharp, blinding pain shot through my skull. The world tilted. The colors in the room inverted for a split second. A rush of strange, alien memories flooded my mind.

I saw pages of a book. I saw words printed in black ink.

*The billionaire's true love returns.*

*The pathetic sister begs for scraps.*

*The doomed side character loses everything.*

I gasped for air. I stumbled back and hit the edge of the glass coffee table.

It all made sense now. The blind favoritism. The extreme cruelty. The way my parents always chose her. The way Enzo treated me like garbage despite my devotion.

I wasn't a real person to them. I was just a plot device. I was the pathetic, clingy substitute wife in a trashy romance novel. My only purpose was to suffer so Isabella could look better. I was supposed to cry, sign the papers, and fade away into misery.

The ringing in my ears stopped. The heavy, crushing weight in my chest vanished. The pathetic love I held for Enzo for seven years evaporated into thin air.

I stood up straight. I looked at Enzo. He was waiting for my tears. He was waiting for me to break down and beg.

Isabella watched from the sofa. Her eyes gleamed with anticipation. She wanted a show.

But the tears didn't come. My eyes felt completely dry. My heart turned to a block of solid ice.

I looked down at the divorce papers in his hand. Then I looked up at his arrogant face.

A slow smirk spread across my lips.

Enzo frowned. His dark brows pulled together. He wasn't expecting me to smile. "What is wrong with you?" he snapped. "Sign the papers and get out."

He shoved the folder toward my chest. He held out an expensive silver pen.

I reached out. I took the pen from his fingers. I rolled the cool metal between my thumb and index finger. It felt heavy and expensive.

"You know, Enzo," I said gently. My voice was completely steady. No shaking. No pleading. "You really are a terrible liar."

Isabella stood up. Her silk dress rustled. "Blaire, just do as he says. Don't embarrass yourself."

I ignored her. I kept my eyes on my husband. My *soon-to-be ex*-husband.

"A vasectomy," I mused. I clicked the pen once. *Click.* "That's very creative. But we both know you hate hospitals. You won't even get a flu shot without me holding your hand."

Enzo's jaw tightened. A vein popped in his neck. His knuckles turned white. "I said, sign it."

"No."

I let go of the yellow folder. It hit the floor with a loud smack. The papers scattered across the pristine marble.

Enzo stared at the mess. He looked completely shocked. "What did you just do?"

I slipped his expensive silver pen into my designer purse. I snapped the clasp shut. "I'm not signing anything right now. I don't feel like it."

"Blaire!" Enzo roared. The anger finally broke through his cold mask. He stepped forward.

I didn't flinch. I just smiled wider. I turned on my heel. I walked toward the hallway.

"Where are you going?" he demanded. His heavy footsteps followed me.

"To my room," I called over my shoulder. "I need my beauty sleep. We have a lot of things to discuss before I give you what you want."

I didn't look back. I didn't care about his anger. I didn't care about Isabella's fake shock.

The pathetic side character was dead. And I was going to make them pay for every single second.

I reached the heavy oak door of the master bedroom. My hand closed over the cool brass knob. Enzo’s heavy footsteps stopped right behind me.

“What do you think you're doing?” he demanded. His breath hit the back of my neck.

I turned around. I leaned against the doorframe and smiled. “Going to bed.”

“I told you,” he hissed. “Isabella is taking the master. She needs the space. You are moving to the guest room.”

“No,” I said simply.

His dark eyes widened. He wasn't used to hearing that word from me. “Excuse me?”

“I am still your wife, Enzo. Until my lawyers review those papers and the ink dries, this is my house. And this is my room.”

Isabella hovered at the end of the hall. She clutched a silk handkerchief to her chest. “Enzo,” she whimpered. “It's fine. I don't want to cause trouble. I can sleep in the tiny guest room.”

She waited for him to defend her. She wanted him to yell at me and drag me out by my wrist.

I didn't give him the chance. “Perfect,” I said brightly. “Glad we agree. Goodnight, sister.”

I stepped inside and slammed the door right in his handsome face. I turned the deadbolt with a loud, satisfying click. For three years, I used to sit on the edge of this massive bed, leaving the bedside lamp on, waiting for him to come home. Not tonight. Tonight, I climbed under the silk sheets and slept like a baby.

The next morning, bright sunlight poured into the penthouse kitchen. I walked in wearing my favorite silk robe. I felt incredibly rested.

Enzo and Isabella were already sitting at the marble island. Isabella was sipping black coffee. Her eyes were slightly puffy, playing the victim perfectly. Enzo was rubbing his temples. He looked like he hadn't slept at all.

I ignored them and walked straight to the pantry. I pulled out a large, plastic bottle of prenatal vitamins.

Rattle, rattle.

The sound echoed loudly in the quiet kitchen. Enzo looked up. His jaw tightened instantly.

I popped the cap off. I poured a giant pink pill into my palm. I filled a glass with fresh orange juice and swallowed the pill with a dramatic gulp.

“Ah,” I sighed loudly. I patted my flat stomach. “Nothing like morning vitamins for the baby.”

Isabella’s hand shook. Her dark coffee sloshed over the rim of her mug and spilled onto the white marble.

“Blaire,” Enzo warned. His voice was dangerously low. “Stop it.”

I walked over to him. I placed my hands gently on his broad shoulders. He stiffened beneath my touch.

“I just can't help it, honey,” I cooed. I made sure my voice was loud enough to ring in Isabella's ears. “I was reading about it last night. A failed vasectomy is so rare! It's less than a one percent chance. We are just so incredibly lucky.”

I leaned down, placing my lips right next to his ear. “It's our little miracle baby.”

Isabella choked out a loud sob. She slammed her mug down on the counter. The ceramic cracked.

“I can't do this!” she cried. She covered her face with her hands and ran out of the kitchen. Her bare feet slapped frantically against the hardwood floor.

Enzo jumped up. His chair scraped violently against the floorboards. “Look what you did,” he snarled.

I took a slow sip of my orange juice. “Just thanking my husband for his strong swimmers.”

Enzo glared at me. His hands balled into tight fists at his sides. “You are completely out of your mind.” He pressed a hand to his stomach. He winced slightly, his face going pale. “Make my breakfast. And start prepping the lasagna for dinner. Isabella loves your lasagna.”

I stared at him. He really thought nothing had changed. He thought he could still give me orders. He thought I would cook my signature dish for the woman who stole my life.

I walked over to the massive stainless-steel refrigerator. I pulled the heavy door open.

Inside, neatly stacked on the middle shelf, were five glass containers. They were filled with Enzo's custom organic meal prep. Peeled tomatoes, steamed chicken, zero spices. I spent hours making them every single Sunday so his chronic stomach ulcers wouldn't bleed.

I grabbed the first container. I walked over to the trash can and stepped on the metal pedal. The lid popped open.

I dropped the glass container inside. Crash.

Enzo froze. “What are you doing?”

I grabbed the next two containers. Crash. Crash. Glass shattered against the bottom of the bin. Steamed chicken and organic rice spilled over the black plastic bags.

“Blaire!” Enzo yelled. He rushed forward and grabbed my arm. “Have you lost your mind? That's my food!”

I yanked my arm out of his grip. I brushed my sleeve like he had left dirt on it.

“I'm pregnant, Enzo,” I said coldly. “The smell of your bland, boring food makes me violently nauseous. I can't be around it.”

“My stomach can't handle anything else!” he shouted. A fresh wave of pain crossed his face. He pressed his hand harder against his abdomen, bending forward slightly.

“Then order takeout,” I suggested. I picked up the last two containers and tossed them into the trash. Crash. “Or better yet, ask Isabella to cook for you. She's the woman of your dreams, right? I'm sure she makes a lovely lasagna.”

I didn't wait for his reply. I turned around and walked right out of the kitchen.

My heart didn't hurt. My hands didn't shake. The heavy chains of my three-year marriage were finally breaking. And it felt absolutely amazing.