After coming back from the hospital, I went straight into the study.

“The safe, behind the bookshelf.”

Liam’s voice was calm. For the first time, I realized there was a safe in the study.

It was built into the wall, with a six-digit combination lock.

“The combination is Claire’s birthday: 920615.”

I paused. 920615. I typed it in. The lock clicked open.

There wasn’t much inside the safe.

A bankbook, two stacks of cash, and a brown paper envelope.

I took the envelope first and opened it.

Inside was a stack of photographs.

Claire’s back by the seaside, Claire sipping coffee in profile, Claire smiling at the camera…

The photos were taken from different angles, like they were secretly snapped, yet not quite.

At the bottom was a folded piece of paper. I opened it; it was in Ethan's handwriting.

“Claire, wait for me.”

Just four words. The strokes were heavy, with indentations on the back, the pen had pressed hard.

I put the photos and letter back without touching anything else.

I opened the bankbook. The account holder was Claire.

Every deposit was over fifty thousand, all transfers from Ethan with the note: “living expenses.”

The last one was a hundred thousand, one month ago.

“Mom, there’s something on the computer too,” Liam said.

I sat at the desk.

Ethan’s computer had fingerprint and password dual verification, but my fingerprint unlocked the first layer.

The second layer was a six-digit password.

“920615.”

I typed it in. The desktop opened.

“Check the recycle bin.”

It showed empty. I opened it anyway, nothing.

“He cleared it before he left,” Liam said. “But clearing doesn’t mean it’s really gone. Do what I say and restore the records.”

Step by step, I followed my son’s instructions. Ten minutes later, the recycle bin had over three hundred recovered files.

I found the chat folder.

Conversations from the past three months with “Claire.”

I opened the topmost message.

Ethan: The tickets are booked, the 15th of next month.

Claire: She won’t find out, right?

Ethan: No. I told her it’s a business trip.

Claire: What about the child? Did you tell her?

Ethan: Not yet. I’ll tell her after I “have an accident.” She’ll accept it more easily.

Claire: How are you going to “have an accident”?

Ethan: I’ve arranged it. Don’t panic, just follow my instructions.

Claire: What if she decides to keep the child?

Ethan: She won’t. I’ll make sure she terminates it. She listens when advised.

I scrolled through each message. Each one was like a pinprick, small but relentless.

Claire asked when he would confront her. He said, “No need, I’ll make her walk away herself.”

She said, “I’m afraid she’ll cause trouble.” He said, “She won’t. She has no temper.”

I closed the computer.

“Mom, there’s a card in the hidden compartment of the safe,” Liam said.

I searched the safe’s secret layer and indeed found another bank card.

“Whose card?” I asked.

“Claire’s. The name is hers, but the money is my dad’s. He transferred part of it before leaving, in case you found out.”

I held the card, flipping it over repeatedly.

“How much?”

“Over four million.”

I silently put the card away. When I stood up, my legs were a little stiff; I leaned on the desk for a moment.

“Mom, aren’t you going to the funeral home?” Liam asked.

“I am.”

I changed into a black dress, no makeup.

The woman in the mirror had red, swollen eyes and pale lips, looking exactly like a pregnant widow.

Perfect. No acting needed.

At the funeral home, the media were already waiting.

Ethan's “belongings” were rolled out in a suitcase: a few clothes, a wallet, a passport.

My hands shook as the staff handed me the suitcase.

I recognized the clothes.

A gray cashmere sweater, one I bought for him last winter.

He had said at the time, “Too expensive, return it,” and I said, “It looks good on you.”

He kept it, but never wore it once.

Now, this sweater, along with a man faking his death, had circled through the airport and returned to me.

I hugged the suitcase, tears splashing onto the lid.

Reporters crowded around, microphones shoved in my face. “Mrs. Rhodes, is there anything you’d like to say to Mr. Rhodes?”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

My mother held me, crying as well.

The relatives let out a mix of sighs and murmurs.

I bent over, crying so hard I could barely stand.

The photos made the evening news.

“Financial Tycoon Dies in Plane Crash, Pregnant Wife Collapses in Tears.”

When I got home, I closed the door, tossed the suitcase in the entryway, and leaned against the door.

Liam’s voice came from my belly: “Mom, you really cried your eyes out today. Careful not to puff them up.”

I sighed.

“I’m really sad. That cashmere sweater, over eight thousand bucks I spent on it.”

“…Mom, you’re crying over a sweater?”

“That’s my money, over eight thousand. Wish I hadn’t bought it.”

Liam sounded speechless.

“Tomorrow, we’ll go find Dad’s secret stash. All his assets, forget eight thousand, at least eight million.”

In the days that followed, I started putting on the act of being heartbroken, making sure no one doubted it.

No need to plan it, just replaying Ethan's chat with Claire was enough.

On the third day, William came to the door.

He sat on the living room sofa, dressed in a suit, his expression heavy.

I was in a wrinkled nightgown, hair unwashed for three days, my eyes swollen to slits.

“Zoe, about Ethan… we’re all very saddened. But you know his final wishes. The longer you delay about the child, the worse it is for your health.”

“I know,” I said, head lowered, my voice trembling.

“I’ve arranged everything at the hospital. The procedure will be led by experts; there’s minimal risk.”

I looked up at him, my eyes red-rimmed. “Mr. Shaw, can I have some more time to think?”

He studied me for a few seconds, sighed, and stood up to leave.

The moment the door closed, Liam’s voice sounded:

“Mom, he’s pushing you to terminate because Dad told him to. If the child is born, you get a share of the inheritance. If it’s terminated, you walk away empty-handed.”

“I know.”

“Then why didn’t you argue with him?”

“Not the time yet.”

I stood and went to the bathroom to wash my face.

The woman in the mirror looked haggard, puffy, and streaked with tears.

I dug through a drawer, found a lipstick, swatched it on my hand, then put it back.

Not now.

On the fourth day, I started making calls.

“Hello, Attorney Walker? This is Zoe, Ethan's wife… Yes, I’d like to consult about marital property.”

He was the best divorce lawyer in the city, and his voice lowered on the line:

“Mrs. Rhodes, is now a convenient time to talk?”

“Yes. My husband is dead.”

Silence on the other end for two seconds.

“…My condolences.”

I read him a list of all the assets I could trace under Ethan's name.

After listening, he asked, “Are you sure that’s everything?”

“I’m not sure. That’s why I’m consulting you.”

After hanging up, I contacted the banks and financial advisors.

I didn’t know most of Ethan’s account passwords, but Liam did.

“Mom, the account he hid at Meridian Bank, the password is Claire’s birthday. Just call and ask for the balance. The bank will give it to you.”

I picked up the phone, fingers hesitating.

“And?”

“His Porsche was financed, don’t take it, let him pay it off himself. There’s a house under his mother’s name, you can’t get that. But there’s an apartment in Westwood, bought after the marriage, under his name. You get half.”

“How much is the apartment worth?”

“Over three million at market value. List it as a priority sale, ten thousand below market; it’ll sell within a week.”

I listened and took notes, seventeen items densely listed in my phone memo.

Stocks, investments, deposits, property, each marked with instructions on what to do.

On the fifth day, I went to Ethan's company to collect his “belongings.”

William led me into Ethan’s office. The door closed, and faint voices whispered outside:

“Poor Mrs. Rhodes, coming here with her belly…”

I stood in front of Ethan’s desk for a moment and picked up a photo frame.

It was our wedding photo. He had his arm around my waist, and I was smiling, eyes crinkled.

I put the frame into a box, tears dropping.

William lingered by the door, hesitant to speak.

“Zoe, about Ethan… if there’s anything you need help with, just say so.”

“Thank you, Mr. Shaw.” I wiped my tears. “Can I stay a little longer?”

“Of course.”

The door closed.

I squatted, digging through the box, and opened the backing of the frame.

There was nothing inside.

I wasn’t looking for anything; I just wanted to confirm that he hadn’t left even a single photo.

I took three things from Ethan’s office: our wedding photo, a notebook he'd used for five years, and a pen he never used.

I brought the box home and placed it by the bed.

On the sixth night, I lay in bed, reviewing my phone notes from start to finish.

Forty-three million.

That was Liam’s calculation.

“Mom, are you nervous?”

“Not really.”

“Your heart rate’s at 110.”

“…A little.”

“Don’t worry. Everything you’re doing is legal. It's only natural for a wife to inherit the marital property after her husband passes away. His fake crash is his matter; transferring the assets is yours. No conflict.”

I rolled over, hands on my belly.

“Thank you, Liam.”

Liam paused for two seconds.

“Mom, don’t say that. Wait until I win this for you before you thank me.”

Seven days ago, I was crying at the funeral home. Seven days later, all of Ethan's liquid assets were on their way to me.

Liam’s voice came from my belly, calm and steady.

“Mom, the Bennetts are coming tomorrow.”

“I know.”

“Are you ready?”

I touched my belly.

“Of course.”

The next morning, the Bennetts arrived.

At ten o’clock, the doorbell rang.

I peeked through the peephole: Claire’s parents, and a middle-aged man in a suit carrying a briefcase.

I opened the door. My exhaustion didn’t need acting, over the past eight days, I’d lost six pounds.

“Aunt, Uncle?”

Mrs. Bennett forced a smile. “Zoe, we came to check on you. You’re carrying the child alone, and we’re worried.”

She stepped inside, Mr. Bennett following, and the suited man brought up the rear, shutting the door behind him.

I stayed in the entryway, motionless.

Mrs. Bennett sat on the sofa, scanning the room, sighing.

“Zoe, we heard about Ethan… it’s truly… a tragedy for such a talented young man.” She dabbed at her eyes, though no tears fell.

Mr. Bennett cleared his throat.

“We’re sad that Ethan is gone. That boy has always been good to our family, sending us living expenses every month...”

I nodded. “He was indeed generous. Twenty thousand every month for three years. That’s seven hundred twenty thousand total.”

Mrs. Bennett’s smile froze for half a second before she recovered. “Yes, Ethan was dutiful...”

“Very dutiful. Anyone unaware might even think you two were his in-laws.”

The living room went quiet.

Mrs. Bennett opened her mouth, Mr. Bennett’s face darkened.

The suited man set down his briefcase and cleared his throat.

“Mrs. Rhodes, we’re here today to discuss some promises Mr. Rhodes made before his passing.”

“What promises?”

He pulled a neatly folded piece of paper from his bag and laid it on the coffee table.

“This is an IOU personally written by Mr. Rhodes for five hundred thousand. Both he and Ms. Claire signed it, for her father’s business operations. Now that Mr. Rhodes has unfortunately passed, you, as the heir, are responsible for this debt.”

I walked over and glanced at the IOU.

Ethan's handwriting, I recognized it. The signature was real, dated a year ago.

Claire’s signature was delicate and neat beside his.

The suited man pulled out another stack of papers.

“Before his death, Mr. Rhodes promised to send twenty thousand per month to Ms. Bennett’s parents, to support them for the rest of their lives. These are screenshots of chat records confirming his word.”

I put down the IOU and looked at Mrs. Bennett.

“Aunt, you came today… for the money?”

Mrs. Bennett sighed, her tone soft as cotton.

“Zoe, we didn’t want to come either. But with Ethan gone, Claire’s child has no support… we rely on this money to get by. You know, her father isn’t well...”

“Not well, yet you had a second child?” I interrupted.

Mrs. Bennett’s face went pale.

“Your son is twenty-three this year. Who bought that BMW he drives? The Hermès on your daughter’s arm, whose card paid for that? And the three-bedroom apartment you live in, who paid the down payment?”

I spoke slowly, word by word.

“Ethan.”

Mr. Bennett stood. “Zoe, watch your tone...”

“I am watching my tone,” I said, staring at him. “Uncle, the building you had constructed back home, eighty thousand. Where did the money come from?”

His mouth opened, but no words came out.

I took a stack of papers from the drawer and laid them on the coffee table.

Page by page, all bank transfer records.

“These are all the transfers Ethan sent to your family. Seventy-two thousand for living expenses, plus miscellaneous amounts, one hundred thirty-seven thousand total.”

Mrs. Bennett stared at the papers, her lips trembling.

“Zoe, this… this was Ethan’s voluntary...”

“Voluntary,” I nodded. “Then go ask him for it.”

The living room fell silent again.

The suited man cleared his throat. “Mrs. Rhodes, even if these transfers are accurate, it does not affect the legal validity of the IOU. As the heir of Mr. Rhodes’ estate...”

“As the heir,” I interrupted, “I have the right to first divide the marital property.”

“Once divided, this money is mine.

“Besides, I also have a legal question for the attorney.”

I looked at Mrs. Bennett, voice low.

“Over the past three years, your family received one hundred thirty-seven thousand. Does that count as unjust enrichment?”

Mrs. Bennett went completely pale.

Mr. Bennett stood, pulling her toward the door.

I leaned against the sofa, hands on my belly. My heart was racing, not from fear, but excitement.

“Mom.”

“Mm.”

“Tomorrow, your husband will be back.”

“He’s not my husband anymore.”

“Right. Tomorrow that dead man will be alive again.”

I picked up my phone and glanced at the calendar.

Day fourteen.

He’s supposed to be back.