I was sipping my afternoon tea when a post caught my eye.

"My son was born right here in Northbridge—and the moment he arrived, Grandma gifted him eight properties and three storefronts!"

"Daddy's already set aside 6.6 pounds of gold for him. Any sweet girls out there interested in becoming my future daughter-in-law?"

The post was blowing up. Tens of thousands of likes and comments.

I almost scrolled past—just another braggart fishing for attention—until I zoomed in on the photos.

My blood ran cold.

Those properties. Those storefronts. They were my dowry. The ones I'd brought into my marriage.

And that gold? I could see the engraving on the bars. My daughter's initials.

How the hell had they ended up in some stranger's post about her son?

——

I checked the address plates on the storefronts again. Three consecutive unit numbers—the exact ones my parents had specifically chosen when I got married. "For your future," they'd said. "Collect the rent and live well."

As for the gold, there was no mistaking it. Denise Delgado's initials were etched right into the side.

My fingers flew across the screen: "Are these really yours?"

The reply came instantly.

"If they're not mine, what—are they yours?"

Before I could respond, more photos appeared. A woman draped in designer labels, cradling an infant, surrounded by heaps of gold and jewelry like some dragon guarding its hoard.

Then another message:

"I'm looking for a future daughter-in-law, not a nanny."

"I checked your profile. That daughter of yours? Not exactly what we're looking for, sweetie."

The casual cruelty of it blanked my mind.

But the comments section had already descended into a feeding frenzy.

"OMG, OP ate her UP! Some people are just bitter!"

"Right? Can't afford it yourself so you accuse others of faking? Pathetic!"

Someone had even screenshotted my daughter's photos from my profile: "OP's not wrong though—her kid is... yikes And she's trying to get attention under OP's post?"

"Give it up, girl. The young master doesn't want your little servant!"

My breath came in sharp, shallow bursts. The phone nearly slipped from my fingers.

Denise was five years old.

She was the light of my life—mine and Patrick Delgado's. We adored her.

And I had never—never—posted her photos looking for some marriage arrangement.

Where did these people get off saying these things about my child?

I screenshot everything and fired it into the Delgado family group chat: "How did MY belongings end up in someone else's post?"

Silence.

A few seconds stretched into eternity.

Then Evelyn Delgado's voice message popped up: "These things are all yours, dear. Did you post them online somewhere and someone stole the pictures?"

A sigh, dripping with false concern. "Honestly, you can't be too careful these days. All sorts of people on the internet."

Before I could reply, Patrick's message appeared:

"Babe, you probably shared those photos somewhere before. They just used AI to composite them into their own pictures."

"I already warned the poster and told her to delete it. Just ignore it."

He followed up with a screenshot of his private message to the woman: "Hello. These photos appear to be stolen from someone else and constitute a violation of their rights. Please delete them immediately, or we will pursue legal action."

I clicked back to the original post.

Gone.

That was fast.

I stared at my phone, something cold settling in my stomach. Finally, I typed a single word into the family chat: "Okay."

Then I locked my phone and looked up at my driver.

"Evan Brooks. Take me to Phoenix Avenue."

Patrick's explanation made sense. On the surface.

AI was everywhere now. Faking photos wasn't hard.

But I knew—knew with absolute certainty—that I had never posted pictures of those storefronts online.

And I had never, not once, photographed Denise's gold.

And really—what were the odds of a coincidence this precise?

The property deed matched the address. The engraving on the gold matched too, character for character.

The car rolled to a stop in front of the storefronts.

I pushed open the door and looked up at the three connected units.

The glass doors of what used to be a clothing boutique lay shattered across the sidewalk. Inside, workers were gutting the place, clearly prepping it for some kind of flower shop.

My brow furrowed. The previous tenant had signed a ten-year lease—nowhere near expiration. How could they possibly have been replaced?

And Patrick had never mentioned a word about changing tenants.

I quickened my pace and called out to one of the workers. "Who authorized this renovation?"

Before he could answer, a woman in a Chanel suit emerged from inside.

She looked me up and down with open contempt. "It's my shop. I'll renovate whenever I damn well please." Her voice was shrill, grating. "Who the hell are you to question me?"

I stared at her face.

My heart slammed against my ribs.

It was her.

The woman from the post.

I locked eyes with her, jaw tight. "These three storefronts are mine. What makes you think they're yours?"

She blinked, then let out a sharp laugh. "Yours? Honey, my husband gave these to me."

She fished her phone from an LV bag and pulled up her photo album. "Open your eyes wide and look carefully—whose name is on these deeds?"

Three property certificates filled the screen, lined up in a row.

Under "Owner," each one read: Louise Pruitt.

My mind went blank.

How? A transfer couldn't happen without my consent. And I'd checked the safe before leaving—every deed, every certificate was still there. Only the gold was missing.

Which meant these documents were almost certainly forged.

But forged papers alone couldn't evict a legal tenant. Someone with authority had made that happen.

Patrick.

When I didn't respond, Louise drew out a long, mocking "Ohhhh."

"You're the owner of that clothing store, aren't you?" She tilted her head, feigning sympathy. "My husband already told you—I wanted this space, and you were compensated. So why are you here making a scene?"

Her lips curled. "Unless the payout wasn't enough for you?"

I took a slow breath. Then I held up my phone, pointing at the man on my lock screen.

"This is your husband?"

Louise leaned in to look.

The color drained from her face.

Then she screamed.

"How dare you use my husband's photo as your wallpaper!" She jabbed a finger at me, voice climbing to a shriek. "He's the CEO of Langford Holdings! You think a delusional little fangirl like you has a chance with him?!"

"I'm warning you—I just gave him a son! A big, healthy boy! My mother-in-law adores him!" Her chest heaved. "Give up already!"

Passersby stopped. Heads turned. A crowd began to form.

And all I could feel was the sheer absurdity of it crashing over me like a wave.

I laughed.

Langford Holdings was my father's company—my family's legacy. He'd only entrusted it to Patrick to manage. Since when did that make Patrick the owner?

And the real joke? Patrick's doting mother—the woman who smiled so sweetly at me, who played the perfect mother-in-law—she'd known about this affair all along.

Which meant she'd approved of my daughter's gold being handed over to Louise.

But spending my money to keep another woman? That, I would not tolerate.

I snapped back to the present.

My hand moved before I could think.

Crack.

The slap echoed off the storefronts.

"Who are you calling a mistress?"

Louise stood frozen, palm pressed to her cheek, too stunned to react.

I looked down at her, eyes cold. "You're the one sleeping with someone else's husband, and you don't even have the self-awareness to be ashamed? You think that's something to be proud of?"

My voice hardened. "I'm ordering you to stop this renovation immediately. Or I'm calling the police."

The crowd swelled. Whispers rippled through the onlookers. Fingers pointed at Louise.

"Wait—so it's the wife confronting the other woman?"

"Looks like the mistress isn't even as pretty as the wife. What was that man thinking?"

Louise's face twisted. She lunged at me, fingers clawing into my hair. "I'm the mistress?!"

"I've been married to my husband for three years! I just gave birth to his son! My mother-in-law even named him herself!"

"Don't let her fool you!"

We struggled, bodies locked together—and that's when I saw it.

The gold necklace around her throat.

One of the pieces from my daughter's stolen jewelry. Denise's favorite.

Rage detonated in my chest. I ripped the chain from her neck. "You dare wear my daughter's things?!"

"You're not worthy!"

She wasn't ready for the force of it. Louise crashed to the ground, a thin line of blood welling where the chain had scraped her skin.

I hadn't planned to make a scene.

But seeing my daughter's belongings flaunted so brazenly—I couldn't swallow that down.

I held up the necklace, voice cutting through the crowd. "There's an engraving on this. My daughter Denise's initials!"

"You and Patrick can expect to hear from my lawyer!"

The words had barely left my mouth when something slammed into me from behind.

I lost my balance. The necklace was wrenched from my grip.

Patrick's voice exploded above me: "Who the hell said those are your daughter's initials?!"

I was on the ground. My knees had landed on broken glass—pain shot through me, sharp enough to steal my breath.

I looked up.

Patrick had Louise cradled protectively against his chest. And behind him stood Evelyn, his mother, holding an infant in her arms.

So that was Patrick's illegitimate son.

When I'd given birth to Denise, Evelyn had claimed she wasn't experienced enough to help. Said she'd rather hire an expensive nanny than risk hurting my daughter.

Now I understood. She just preferred grandsons.

Before I could process any of it, Patrick turned. The disgust in his eyes hit me like a physical blow.

"Ava!" His lip curled. "Are you done with your little breakdown? Then get out. Stop harassing my wife!"

Wife?

Patrick was publicly acknowledging his affair?

He didn't wait for my reaction. He turned back to Louise, gently refastening the necklace around her throat, his gaze soft with concern. "Sweetheart, are you hurt anywhere?"

"You just gave birth—you can't get upset like this. Does your stomach hurt?"

Louise melted against him, pointing at me through theatrical sobs. "Honey, she said the shops you gave me are hers. She even tried to steal the necklace you bought me!"

"Who... who is she?"

Patrick glanced at me, expression flat. "I told you before. There's a woman at the company who won't stop throwing herself at me. That's her."

"I'll handle this. Don't worry about it."

The crowd's murmuring shifted. Understanding dawned on their faces—followed by contempt. They looked at me and laughed.

"Oh, so she's the delusional side piece. I was wondering why any man would cheat with someone uglier than his wife."

"Trying to seduce someone's husband and then trashing his wife's store? What's wrong with you?"

"Why are you so obsessed with other people's things? Screaming about it won't make it yours."

I laughed—a hollow, disbelieving sound.

I looked straight at Patrick, each word precise. "Patrick. That necklace has my daughter Denise's initials engraved on it. You had it done. What exactly are you trying to say?"

His jaw tightened. "Who told you that?"

"The initials are obviously my wife's and my surnames. S and L."

What?

My mind went blank. S and L? For... their names?

But Patrick had told me himself—our daughter would be called Denise, Denise Delgado, because she was the proof of our bond.

Which meant...

When my daughter was born, they were already together.