The year I learned to hate my father, he served up his business partner—a man two decades his senior, a man he called his protégé—as a twisted olive branch, a peace offering to keep me quiet. He delivered him right to my bed. I was reckless. I was seeking oblivion. I let the night happen. One night led to a three-month blur of infatuation, and by the end of it, I had forgiven my father. Four months in, I was pregnant. Overnight, I became the most protected woman in Newport. At every prenatal appointment, the City’s richest men—my father, Harrison Bellwether, and my husband, Brooks Wellington—were there. Everyone said I was a princess, pampered by my father and husband. But the day of my anatomy scan, they both sent their regrets. “A massive deal came up,” my father said, patting my head. Brooks gently rubbed my bulging stomach. “When it’s over, I’ll bring back gifts for you and the baby.” I smiled and waved them off. Yet, just before the appointment, an anonymous video landed in my inbox. My father, in a tuxedo, was standing next to Dahlia Shaw, the woman who’d destroyed my mother. His illegitimate daughter, Savannah Bellwether, her own belly protruding in a wedding gown, clung to Brooks’ arm. “Double the happiness!” a voice cheered as someone raised a glass. “Congratulations, Harry, on finally welcoming your true love, and congratulations, Brooks, on marrying your true soulmate!” The video’s end brought my father’s voice, chillingly detached: “What about the fake marriage certificate with Delaney, and the baby? The child will be illegitimate.” Brooks’ low, amused voice replied: “Delaney has everything. Savvy’s been treated like a bastard her entire life. I won’t let her child suffer the same fate.” I bit down hard on my lip and stumbled out of the clinic. The phone in my hand vibrated incessantly. A new text message appeared: it was a copy of a vasectomy surgery report. Below it, a line of text: “If you agree, the child in your belly will be my only heir, my last legacy.” 1 I walked aimlessly through the streets after leaving the hospital. On the City’s biggest Jumbotron, a segment was playing: the exclusive family interview from three months ago, when I’d first announced my pregnancy. My father held up a massive, auctioned diamond for the camera. “The ‘Ocean’s Heart’ is for my future grandchild, a girl. Its value doesn’t matter. It's the lineage, the legacy, that matters.” Brooks gently squeezed my hand. “The hardest part is Delaney’s. I will spend the rest of my life taking care of my girls.” The screen froze on the image of us exchanging loving smiles. Beneath it, a rolling banner declared: “Newport’s Happiest Family.” Rain mixed with tears, blurring my vision. That’s when my phone rang. Brooks. Before, that exclusive ringtone would have made me snatch up the phone immediately. Now, I hesitated. I finally answered just before it went to voicemail. On the line, I heard the smug laughter of Brooks’ friends: “Brooks finally got what he wanted! He chased Savvy all over the world. Now, to get her the majority of the Bellwether assets, he had to play this ‘doting husband’ charade with the heiress for two years.” “Ha! Brooks still has the magic touch! The last time Delaney was with him, she was so weak in the knees she was practically hanging onto him. No wonder he didn’t even need a real marriage license to knock her up!” “Tsk tsk. She despises illegitimate children, yet now, her own kid is a bastard!” “The most genius move was today! Savvy saying, ‘My mother won’t marry, so neither will I,’ and Brooks convincing Harrison to marry Dahlia. Mother and daughter marrying into power on the same day! The City hasn’t seen this kind of drama in decades!” My knuckles were white as I gripped the phone, tears raining down. Suddenly, Brooks’ voice cut through the noise, colder than I’d ever heard it. “Who touched my phone?” The commotion stopped dead. “Baby? Why aren’t you talking? Are you feeling unwell?” Brooks’ tenderness was flawless. It was as if those hateful words had been my hallucination. I opened my mouth, wanting to demand a divorce. Then I realized the terrible truth: our marriage license was a sham. I didn't even have the legal standing to file for divorce. At that moment, a soft, sugary voice cut in from his end. “Hubby, my back is so sore. The baby is kicking me again…” Brooks clearly panicked for a second. “Baby, I have an urgent matter here. I’ll come back to you later.” Before I could respond, he hung up hastily. I don’t know how long I sat in the living room before I heard the front door open. My father and Brooks walked in, their faces still flushed with the residual excitement of a wedding celebration. “Laney, I specially had this customized for you in Switzerland. All natural ingredients,” my father said. Brooks knelt before me and massaged my swollen ankles. “Why didn't you go for the scan? Are you mad we didn’t go with you? I’ll have the head of the department come here personally to check on you tomorrow, okay?” They showered me with affection, then froze when they realized I hadn't said a word. Brooks subtly shook his head, signaling that the wedding news had not leaked. I handed him a document. “Sign this.” My father played the jealous parent. “Does my daughter only want things from her husband now? Not her daddy?” Brooks didn’t even glance at the paper, scribbling his signature with a flourish. “We’re one, darling. What’s mine is yours. No need to be so formal.” He smiled, handing the paper back to me. Just then, both their phones chimed simultaneously. My father patted my shoulder: “Company emergency. We need to handle something in the B Wing.” Brooks kissed the top of my head: “I expanded the B Wing for you. We can work there and still be close to you.” They hurried off. Two forgotten groom pins—one slipping from my father's jacket pocket, the other from Brooks’—were all the reminders I needed: Tonight was their wedding night. I looked down at the paper. “Voluntary Surrender of All Paternal Rights” was clearly stated above Brooks’ signature. A tear rolled down my cheek, followed by a quiet laugh. With this, the child in my womb had no ties to Brooks Wellington. I, Delaney Monroe, could love deeply, and let go completely. Wiping away the last tear, I called Mr. Ellis, my attorney. “Mr. Ellis, I need to terminate the escrow agreement immediately. Also, terminate all resource allocations to Wellington Group.” 2 “Miss Monroe, once the inheritance process is activated, 72% of Bellwether Group shares will be transferred to your name within ten days.” Mr. Ellis paused before adding, “Your mother ensured there was a very thorough asset isolation protocol before she passed… Mrs. Shaw can't touch a dime of the Bellwether assets.” I murmured an acknowledgment and hung up. The year my mother died, my father knelt at her coffin, wailing. He slapped himself repeatedly, saying his drunken weakness had betrayed her and me. I hid in my room for days, refusing to eat. It was Brooks who patiently brought me porridge, spoonful by spoonful, coaxing me to swallow. “Your mother would want you to be happy, even up there.” That one line pulled me back. It also made me give him my entire heart. Now I understood the calculation behind that gentle facade. My phone kept vibrating. Photo after photo appeared. A young Brooks, embracing Savannah on a yacht, kissing her; holding her hand in a snowy park. Each photo was signed, “To My Beloved Savvy.” I realized my honeymoon route had been a twisted trip down their memory lane. “Sis, the sheets in that hotel suite you stayed in? We’d just left our mark on them.” “Brooks swore he had to hold you all night, right? Do you want to bet I can call him, and he’ll leave you right now?” Savannah’s voice note made my stomach churn. “Ugh—” Before I was done vomiting, the door was flung open. Brooks. “Laney? Is the morning sickness worse? I’ll make you something bland right away!” He was fast. He returned moments later with a steaming bowl of bird’s nest congee. He’d specifically learned this pregnancy recipe from a Michelin-starred chef. He’d cancelled three major acquisitions just to master this dish. His eyes held an expectant light, waiting for me to fall into his arms with gratitude, as I always did. When I remained impassive, he paused, then expertly began to massage my temples. “Brooks,” I suddenly said. “Have you lied to me about anything? If you tell me now…” Brooks, after all you did—you broke three ribs shielding me when I jumped out that window five years ago. I was giving him one last chance. “Nonsense. You and our child are the great loves of my life.” His perfect performance made me want to laugh. Brooks studied my expression, then chuckled softly. “I know what this is. You always say things like this when you want me to dote on you.” He leaned in to kiss me. A sudden clap of thunder rattled the windows. I instinctively shrank beneath the covers. It had been years since a thunderstorm made me cry. Since I met Brooks, I thought I had found security. But now, tears flowed uncontrollably. Brooks immediately wrapped me in a hug. “Don’t be scared, I’m here.” His embrace was still warm, yet I shivered with cold. Just then, a house manager rushed in and whispered something in Brooks’ ear. His face flashed, but he forced a steady demeanor. “Can’t you see the lady of the house is resting?” He gave my back a perfunctory pat, his eyes darting toward the door. “Sleep, I’ll stay here with you.” But as soon as he thought I was ‘asleep,’ he bolted without a backward glance. My phone screen flickered in the darkness. Savannah’s latest photos were even more graphic. Rumpled sheets, Brooks’ naked, muscled back, and a suggestive rabbit tail toy, damp with liquid. The last voice note was filled with triumphant gasps. [Sis, Brooks hasn't touched you since you got pregnant, right? But he can't resist me. He just took me three times...] [I heard Brooks hasn’t named your baby yet? Ours is going to be called ‘Nicky’ ] As she spoke, Savannah exposed a tattoo on her chest, identical in placement and style to the one on Brooks. Boom! My ears rang. I remembered my wedding night, weeping with gratitude as I traced the word “Laney” tattooed over his heart. The complex look in his eyes wasn’t emotion; it was guilt. Every time he called me “Laney” with such deep affection, he was thinking of another woman. For three years, I had been the butt of a colossal joke. I sat there, frozen, until dawn. Finally, I replied to the number that had been waiting: [I accept your offer to be the baby’s nominal father. Let’s cooperate.] 3 The next morning, I woke to a cacophony. The hall was packed with Newport’s elite, all here for my birthday celebration. I was stunned. I hadn’t celebrated my birthday since my mother died a decade ago. I looked around. My mother’s portraits on the walls had all been replaced by photographs of Dahlia Shaw. The butler, oozing sycophancy, explained, “Mr. Wellington personally arranged it. He said Miss Savannah would be pleased.” The guests began to whisper. “Did you hear? The golden properties left by the former Mrs. Bellwether have all been transferred to Mrs. Shaw.” “Tsk tsk, the original wife works her entire life, and the mistress walks away with the prize.” “Shh! Keep it down. She’s the legitimate wife now.” Dahlia, limp and tearful, leaned on my father's shoulder. She dabbed her eyes as she addressed me: “I know the young lady doesn't care for me, but today is a joyful day. I only have one small wish: let me serve Harrison for the rest of his life, and help look after this home for your mother.” She deliberately omitted the fact that today was also the anniversary of my mother's death. Seeing the redness in my eyes, my father dismissed it lightly: “Dahlia is your elder now. She’s only showing kindness by throwing you a party. Try to be magnanimous, Laney.” Before he finished speaking, Savannah entered, linked arm-in-arm with Brooks. “Happy Birthday, my princess.” Brooks’ voice was full of manufactured adoration as he handed me a black and gold box. “Good heavens! That’s the exclusive ‘True Love Heart’ packaging from Casdair Auctioneers!” a guest gasped. “A mysterious buyer paid a fortune for it last month! I can’t believe it was Brooks!” “What a devoted prince! Delaney Monroe has all the luck!” I didn’t care. The centerpiece auction item, the devoted prince—none of it mattered. I only cared about the maternity dress Savannah was wearing. It was the gown my mother had sewn, stitch by stitch, with her last breath. “Take it off.” My voice trembled as I stared at her. Savannah’s eyes immediately welled up, and she hid slightly behind Brooks. The guests gasped, shocked by my blatant disrespect for Brooks. Brooks’ tone was gentle, but laced with dominance: “Laney, stop making a scene. If you like the style, I’ll hire the designer tomorrow to customize a new one for you, okay?” I couldn’t hear anything. I lunged at Savannah. Brooks clamped his hand around my shoulder. “Delaney! Calm down! You’re pregnant!” “Ah!” Savannah suddenly dropped to her knees, frantically tearing at the neckline of her dress. “I know you look down on my mother and me! You’ve always bullied me!” She’d done this in high school, too—self-mutilation, then crying that I’d attacked her. Since then, everyone believed Delaney Monroe, the Bellwether heiress, was a spoiled brat who loved to torment others. The guests whispered, their eyes filled with contempt. “The original wife’s daughter is so vicious…” “The illegitimate child is still her sister. Why be so cruel?” Brooks ripped off his suit jacket and wrapped it around Savannah's shoulders. He looked at me, cold for the very first time. “Delaney, apologize.”
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