On the day of our daughter's one-month anniversary, my husband's ex-girlfriend posted a photo on Instagram of them holding a baby together. The caption read: "Our little family finally reunited."

I was stunned by the photo, seeing my precious Marie—the daughter I had carried for nine months and brought into this world. I commented, "That seems to be my daughter."

Moments later, Maxwell called me.

"Amalia just adores our daughter and wants to be her godmother; that's why she posted that. Do you have to be so uptight?"

"You’re becoming more and more paranoid! Instead of obsessing over social media, why not focus on recovering after birth? Just look at how much weight you’ve gained!"

Before I could respond, he hung up.

When I checked Instagram again, the post was gone, and her account had blocked me from viewing her updates.

I stared at the supposed family photo, feeling as though my heart was being torn apart.

---

When Maxwell returned home, I was just folding the last piece of clothing into the suitcase.

He looked at the neatly packed clothes, his handsome brows furrowing deeply.

"I swear, Amalia and I have nothing going on. Today she just felt impulsive and took a photo with Marie. Can you stop being so jealous?"

I paused, holding back my anger as I replied, "Ever since Amalia came back from Spain, you’ve been bending over backward for her. Isn't that obvious to you?"

Maxwell's eyes darted around, his expression suddenly darkening.

"Aurelia, are you crossing the line?"

"Amalia is my friend. My company needs someone with her international experience. Right now, we’re just colleagues!"

Thinking of the three-person photo, I laughed bitterly, "Colleagues? The kind that sleep together?"

At those words, Maxwell kicked my suitcase over, scattering clothes everywhere.

"You’re being so unreasonable, Aurelia! If I really wanted to be with her, you wouldn't even be part of the picture. Watch your words, or I won't hesitate to divorce you."

Maxwell stormed into the bedroom and slammed the door shut.

I stared at the overturned suitcase, feeling as if I were looking at my shattered heart.

Since Amalia returned from Spain, Maxwell had been giving her preferential treatment in every aspect.

Even colleagues at his company complained to me, frustrated that to solidify her position, Maxwell had placed her directly into the role of product director. When Amalia said, "I want to prove my abilities," he reassigned a successfully launched project to her, despite it eventually losing half a million dollars.

He just brushed it off as "an investment in developing talent."

Employees grumbled behind the scenes, calling Amalia a "charmer." But the next day, every one of them was fired without exception.

After that, no one dared to oppose her.

If all this were simply my imagination, how could that "family photo" on Amalia’s Instagram be explained?

The following morning, Maxwell was out the door bright and early.

His assistant was in search of him, and the calls somehow ended up being redirected to me. But I couldn't care less; all I wanted was to take Marie to the hospital for the paternity test.

After handing in the required paperwork, I sat in the hallway waiting for the results. Gazing at my daughter, her uncanny resemblance to Amalia was overwhelming. This whole situation felt surreal, yet Maxwell's demeanor left me anxious. I needed to see the report with my own eyes.

Before I could gather my thoughts, I looked up and there were Maxwell and Amalia.

Spotting me, Amalia retreated behind Maxwell.

"Aurelia, what brings you here?"

"Maxwell just ran into me, don't read too much into it."

Her words felt more like a nervous confession than anything reassuring. Maxwell's smile vanished the moment he noticed me.

With a rigid expression, he asked, "Aurelia, are you spying on me?"

"I've told you countless times, Amalia is like a sister to me. Can you stop with the paranoia?"

I gave them both a cold stare. Just then, my phone buzzed, indicating the report was ready for pickup. I switched off the screen and headed to the lab.

Ignoring Maxwell, he frowned and quickly caught up to grab my arm.

"Amalia twisted her ankle yesterday, I'm just here to help her."

I glanced at Amalia.

"And a sprained ankle justifies spending the whole night with someone else's husband, does it?"

"Or are you implying that she has also, like me, once broken both legs?"

Maxwell's explanation hit a roadblock, and he clammed up.

Two years ago, a terrible accident took place. A truck lost control and smashed into my car. Trapped under the wreckage, I desperately called Maxwell—not hoping for rescue, but to express my love before the end.

What did I get? I called over ten times with no response.

When I finally reached him, teetering on the brink of despair, he picked up. I managed to tell him I was in an accident and might not survive. Rather than concern, he met me with annoyance.

"Aurelia, why do you keep calling? I'm busy."

"If you're trying to grab my attention with this, expect divorce papers!"

I didn't dare disturb him further and braced for death alone. Luckily, the rescue team arrived just in time. I survived, narrowly escaping before the truck exploded.

However, my legs were crushed for too long; shattered bones required months to heal before I could walk again. Only a few months ago did I learn what had occupied Maxwell—organizing a welcome party for Amalia, who had just returned from abroad. Due to my severe injuries, my legs still throb with pain whenever it rains.

Maxwell was tongue-tied, unable to justify himself. He attempted to speak again, but I cut him off.

"I have things to attend to. Take good care of your girlfriend."

With that, I briskly made my way down the corridor.