My stomach dropped. She walked past me like I was furniture.

“To be honest,” she added with a shrug, “this house was always too big for just one woman.”

I turned to Jacob. “Tell me she’s lying.”

He didn’t answer.

That silence was louder than a scream.

I didn’t protest when Jacob said Valentina was moving in.

“She’s eight months pregnant,” he said, like I needed reminding. “She’s carrying our child. It’s safer if she’s here. We can monitor her, make sure everything’s okay.”

Right. We. As if I had a say anymore.

She had no family close by, and she’d be more comfortable here, in the mansion. That was his excuse.

I just nodded.

What else was I supposed to do? Say no and look heartless? It’s not like I could tell people the real reason. Oh, hi, my husband emotionally manipulated me for a decade and I just found out he secretly sabotaged my fertility—oh, and by the way, I’m pretty sure he’s cheating on me with the surrogate.

No. I stayed quiet.

***

The first few days, I kept my distance. She spent most of her time in the sunroom, reading baby books, sipping herbal tea, humming softly to herself. Jacob had a room set up for her on the second floor, just across from ours.

Too close.

I told myself I was being paranoid. Emotional. Hormonal, even though I wasn’t the one carrying the baby. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. That Valentina wasn’t just here for the baby.

That Jacob had brought her here for himself.

And he was so attentive to her.

He rubbed her feet in the evenings while they watched TV together—on the couch I picked out. He brought her pillows and blankets when she napped. He asked what she was craving and made me cook it. When she said her back hurt, he looked at me and said, “Run her a bath, will you? Use the lavender salts.”

I became a ghost in my own house. A servant.

“Maurice, can you warm her milk before bed?”

“Maurice, Valentina’s hungry again. Can you whip up that soup she likes?”

“Maurice, go pick up her prenatal vitamins—no, not the generic ones, she needs the special imported kind.”

I did it all.

Because every time I hesitated, he’d look at me like I was the problem. Like I was the selfish one. The unstable one.

It felt like I was living with a king and his queen—and I was just the maid, watching from the shadows as they played house with my life.

And the worst part?

He didn’t even try to hide it.

And then I found the photo.

I was going through the drawers in Jacob’s office, looking for a pen of all things, when I saw it tucked between some old receipts and paperwork. A small photo, a little bent at the edges, but unmistakable.

Jacob and Valentina.

Together. Younger. Smiling. His arm slung around her shoulders like it belonged there.

I stared at it for a long time, my stomach churning.

When I confronted him that night, I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry.

I just held up the photo and asked, “How long?”

He didn’t flinch. Just sighed and leaned against the dresser, arms crossed like this was mildly inconvenient. “It was a long time ago. An old fling. Nothing serious.”

“I thought she was your cousin's friend.”

“So? She’s just the surrogate, now. That’s all it is. You’re reading into things again.”

Again. Like I was some irrational creature who always made drama out of nothing.

I wanted to throw the photo at him. Instead, I turned and walked out.

***

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

The bed was cold. Jacob never came in. He said he had an “important meeting” with international clients. “Don’t wait up,” he told me. “It’s for the business.”

I believed him. Like I always did. Like a stupid wife who still trusted her lying husband.

But time passed. Hours. Midnight came and went.

The house was too quiet. I couldn’t breathe. I needed fresh air.

I got out of bed and walked toward the balcony.

Then I saw it—Valentina’s door. It was open just a little.

Just enough for me to look inside.

And what I saw made my heart stop.

Jacob.

Naked.

Behind Valentina.

Having sex with her while she was on her hands and knees. Her pregnant belly full and round.

And he wasn’t quiet.

“Yes, fuck me harder, Jacob,” Valentina moaned. “I love how wild you get with me.”

He grabbed her hips and pulled her back harder with every thrust.

“This pussy is perfect,” he said. “You were made for me, Valentina.”

She looked back and smiled. “I’m eight months pregnant with your baby, and I still want you every night. Doesn’t it drive you crazy?”

He slapped her ass. “You’re mine. You’ve always been mine.”

“And your wife?” she laughed. “That little fool sleeping down the hall?”

He laughed too. “She’s nothing. Just a name. You’re the one I love. You’re the one I fuck.”

“Say it again,” Valentina begged.

“I love you, Valentina,” Jacob said. His voice deep and rough. “I fucking love you. I’ve been with you for three years—while married to her.”

I stood there frozen.

I wanted to scream. To throw the door open. To break everything.

But I couldn’t move.

I just stood there. Watching the man I gave my life to… betray me like it meant nothing.

And Valentina didn’t even care.

She moaned louder. “You’re not going back to her. Not after this. Not when I’m so wet for you. I own you now.”

“You do,” Jacob gasped. “And I’ll keep fucking you until you can’t take anyone else.”

He said it between every thrust like a hammer to my chest.

My stomach twisted. My throat burned. Because suddenly, everything clicked.

Those late-night “emergencies.”

The endless “business trips abroad.”

The long, quiet calls that ended the moment I entered the room.

The expansion project that took him “a year to oversee overseas.”

three years.

Out of the four we were married… he was with her.

I wasn’t his wife.

I was a cover. A placeholder. A lie he fed for the sake of appearances, while he built a life—with her.

That night, I didn’t scream. I didn’t throw anything. I didn’t storm into Valentina’s room or rip the sheets off the bed or pour bleach over the clothes Jacob left in our closet.

I went back to my room. Quietly. Like a ghost returning to her grave.

I shut the door behind me and collapsed onto the floor.

The sobs didn’t come right away. I was too numb for that. I just sat there, staring at the wall. Hearing their voices echo in my head. “You’re mine.” “She’s nothing.” “three years.”

three years.

They had been together longer than most people stay married. And I had been sleeping beside him, making him breakfast, praying for a baby—with my whole heart—while he gave everything I wanted to someone else.

Eventually, I reached for my phone.

There was only one person I could trust. One person who wouldn’t feed me lies.

I dialed.

“Maurice?” Dr. Elira’s voice was groggy. I must’ve woken her. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

I swallowed hard. “I need your help.”

“What happened?”

“I need a DNA test run on the surrogate. Quietly. And fast. Please… can you do that?”

There was a pause. “Are you okay?”

“No,” I said. “But I need to know the truth before I fall apart.”

Elira didn’t ask questions. She just said, “I’ll make some calls.”

The next morning, she called back.

“I pulled Valentina’s file.”

I was in the garden when I answered, pretending to water the roses. Jacob was inside, having breakfast with her.

“What did you find?” I asked, heart pounding.

Elira’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Maurice… there’s no IVF record. No egg retrieval. No implantation. No surrogate contract signed under your name. Nothing.”

I gripped the edge of the stone bench. “What does that mean?”

“She was never your surrogate, G,” she said gently. “She’s not carrying your baby. The egg isn’t yours.”

I didn’t speak.

“She and Jacob… they conceived naturally.”

Everything stopped.

The breeze. The birds. The pulse in my wrist.

“Maurice?” she asked again. “Are you—”

I hung up. I couldn’t breathe.

I had nothing left.

I didn’t wait for him to come to me.

That night, after Valentina went upstairs—after he kissed her cheek and rubbed her belly and called her “his queen”—I met him in his office.

He looked surprised. “You’re still up?”

I shut the door behind me. “I spoke to Elira.”

His eyes darkened.

“She checked Valentina’s medical files.”

Silence.

“No embryo transfer. No hormone protocols. No signed papers. Nothing.”

He sighed, slow. “So?”

“So you lied.”

“I protected you.”

“No,” I said, voice rising. “You used me. You made me think SHE WAS CARRYING MY CHILD!”

He didn’t blink. “I needed a strong Ricci heir. Your body couldn’t deliver. Hers could.”

There it was.

Just like that. Cold. Unapologetic.

“Do you even hear yourself?”

“I did what I had to do.”

“You stole four years from me. You made me think I was broken. That I was failing you.”

His jaw tightened. “You were never strong enough to be a mother.”

I slapped him.

The sound echoed in the room. But he didn’t react.

“I gave you everything,” I whispered. “My love. My loyalty. My body. My soul. And you… you gave me lies.”

“You have a roof over your head,” he said. “A name. You’re a Ricci. That should be enough.”

“It’s not.”

He stepped forward. “You’re upset. I get it. But let’s not ruin everything now. The baby’s almost here. Let’s just—”

I stepped back.

“No more,” I said. “No more pretending. I want out.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Out?”

“I want a divorce.”

He laughed once, low and dangerous. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“You can’t stop me.”

“Oh, I can,” he said. “And I will. For your safety, of course.”

And just like that, my house became a cage.

Guards at the gate. My phone monitored. My calls traced. I wasn’t allowed to drive. My credit cards froze. He told the staff I was having a mental episode.

“Just until she’s better,” he told them. “She’s under a lot of stress.”

And every night, he came into my room, acting like nothing happened. Like we were still husband and wife.

But I didn’t speak. I didn’t look at him.

I was already gone.

Only my body remained.

But my mind? My heart?

They were planning an escape.

And I swore to myself…

If he thought I was broken before—he hadn’t seen anything yet.

There had been a hollow sort of ache that no amount of sleep could fix. I woke up with it lodged in my chest like a stone—cold, unmoving, cruel. The bed had been colder too. Jacob hadn’t touched that room in days. I didn’t blame him. He was probably too busy comforting Valentina and her precious trophy of a pregnancy.

Every corner of that house used to hold pieces of me. Now it felt like I was trespassing in a museum of my own life. The staff—once loyal, once warm—had begun giving me cautious glances, like I might shatter at any moment. One of them even had the audacity to call her "Mrs. Ricci" the day before.

I hadn’t corrected it. What was the point?

Valentina walked those halls like she owned the ground they were built on. She floated in my silk robes, sipped my imported tea, and smirked with every pass like she’d already won.

And maybe she had.

I found her in the kitchen that morning, lounging like a cat in the sunniest spot of the window. She wore one of my sweaters—tight over her bump—and sipped my imported tea like it had always belonged to her.

She didn’t even blink when I walked in. Just glanced up, smirked, and said,

“Did you enjoy the show the other night?”

My heart stuttered. “What?”

She tilted her head, all faux innocence. “Me and Jacob. Upstairs. The sounds. The headboard. Come on, Maurice. You were watching, weren’t you? Pathetic.”

I couldn’t breathe.

Her grin widened, wicked and proud. “You poor thing. Clinging to hope like it ever meant something.”

My voice shook. “How? How the hell did you and Jacob pull this off? All that time—pretending you were the surrogate. All the lies—how long were you laughing behind my back?”

She shrugged, slow and elegant. “Oh, sweetheart. Ask Jacob. He’s the one who kept feeding you dreams.”

Then she leaned closer, her voice a whisper laced in venom.

“But between us? It was too easy playing you.”

“You lied to me.”

She smirked. “No. I played my part. You were the one so desperate to believe it.”

I wanted to scream. Shake her. Slap the smug off her face. But I just stood there, frozen in place, unraveling inch by inch.

She traced a circle lazily over her bump. “This baby? It was never yours. It was ours. Made with love. Passion. Everything he used to fake with you.”

I should’ve screamed. Should’ve smashed her mouth. But I just stared. Rage curdled into something heavier—grief, maybe.

She leaned in with a smile made of venom. “You think he stayed because of you? Jacob is loyal to blood, not broken promises and empty wombs.”

I left before my hands could betray me.

***

That afternoon, the air had shifted. Something heavier settled. I felt it before I saw it.

“Jacob,” she called out, loud enough for the entire staff to hear. “Your freak pathetic wife is obsessed with me. She keeps staring at my belly like she wants it gone.”

I froze. “Don’t start.”

She tilted her head. “You’re just mad I fit into your clothes better than you ever did.”

I clenched my fists. “You’re delusional.”

She stepped forward, that wicked smile stretching. “You should be grateful he kept you this long. Most men would’ve dumped a broken woman after year two.”

Something in me snapped.

I stepped closer, but I didn’t touch her. I didn’t. “You don’t get to talk about what you’ll never understand.”

But she gasped like I hit her, stumbled, and dropped to her knees with a sob. “Jacob! She pushed me! The baby—God, it hurts!”

“What?” I whispered, eyes wide. “You lying—”

Jacob stormed in.

Time fractured.

He saw her crumpled, heaving on the floor. Saw me standing over her, hands trembling.

“What did you do?” he growled, voice unrecognizable.

“I didn’t touch her—”

“Enough!” he shouted. “You just couldn’t handle it. You couldn’t stand that my child—my future—is with someone else.”

I blinked back tears. “Jacob, please—”

He didn’t even look at me.

Valentina wept in his arms, clutching his shirt. “She hates the baby. She said... she wished it would die.”

Lies. Every word of it. But no one was listening.

Then Jacob looked at me—really looked at me—for the first time in days.

And then his hand struck.

It was fast. Brutal. A slap so loud it echoed through the marble halls. My head snapped sideways, the taste of blood flooding my mouth as pain bloomed behind my eyes. My nose cracked. My teeth cut into my lip. The room spun violently.

I staggered. One step back. Then another.

Valentina screamed, fake and fluttery, like she hadn’t been waiting for that moment. “Jacob! No—don’t hurt her. She’s just... confused. Maybe we shouldn’t—”

“Enough,” he growled, eyes still on me. “She hurt you. No one hurts my woman.”

His woman.

Not me.

Her.I swayed on my feet, vision swimming, ears ringing. Blood ran from my nose, hot down my chin. The taste of copper and betrayal mixed on my tongue.

“She’s not well,” Valentina whimpered behind him, her voice a snake coiled in faux concern. “But throwing her out? It’s snowing tonight...”

He didn’t blink. “Let her feel it. Throw her out!"

The guards came again.

They didn’t guide me this time—they dragged me. My feet scraped the floor. My hand reached out, fingers brushing the wall one last time.

Outside, the wind howled like a wounded animal. The temperature had dropped. The forecast had warned of snowfall. It had started.

Thick, silent flakes fell like ash.

They threw me out. No shoes. No coat. The door slammed shut behind me with the finality of a coffin lid.

I tried to breathe, but each inhale burned. Blood leaked down my face. My vision blurred, doubling the trees, the road, the night.

Still, I walked.

Step by step. On frozen feet. Teeth chattering. Bones aching. My sweater—the same one Valentina had worn that morning—hung heavy and wet from the snow.

My knees gave out once. Then again. I pushed forward.

Lights blurred in the distance.

My name had been Maurice Ricci.

Now I was no one. But the road curved before I could. My vision blurred.

Headlights. Too fast. Too close.

Then impact.

Metal screamed. Bones cracked. I flew. My body slammed against the frozen ground with a sound that would echo for eternity. Blood bloomed across the snow like a signature.

And in the distance—just through the frost-laced window of the estate—Jacob turned to see.

He saw me. Broken. Bleeding. Limp.

“Maurice!” he roared, voice cracking as he ran for the door.

But before he could get there—

Valentina screamed. Doubled over. Clutching her belly. “Jacob—it’s the baby! Oh my God! I think I’m in labor!”