For six years, I secretly loved Robert Reid. The night I confessed, someone drugged my drink. I thought I'd spent that passionate night with him. Two months pregnant, Robert agreed to "do the right thing"—until our wedding day, when he flashed a marriage certificate with his childhood sweetheart Isabelle. His twin Ian pulled me aside. "It was me that night," he admitted, proposing immediately. After four failed pregnancies, doctors said I'd never carry to term. Ian lit candles in every church, begging God for our miracle. Now pregnant again, I overheard them plotting: "Trick her into a hysterectomy," Robert suggested. "She'll never bear a healthy heir," Ian agreed. "The fortune belongs to Isabelle's child." Then— "Let's fetch her firstborn from the orphanage. Isabelle needs entertainment." "Fine. Just don't kill him... though his life's worthless anyway." I finally understood: We were just toys for Isabelle's amusement. 1 Ian tossed a photograph of a three-year-old boy onto the table, his eyes flashing with disgust. “This is the one. I couldn’t be bothered to name him. The director at the orphanage calls him Ben. I saw him last year—all skin and bones, completely malnourished.” Ian sneered. “To be honest, though, he has your eyes.” Robert, lounging in his chair, picked up the photo with a look of pure contempt. “He’s just a bastard, the result of a one-night mistake. I’ll never acknowledge him.” He then carefully unlocked his phone, his expression softening as he gazed at the screen saver—a radiant Isabelle in a maternity dress. “My children will only come from Isabelle.” His voice hardened again. “If that scheming bitch Leah hadn’t deliberately drunk Isabelle’s wine that night four years ago, she never would have had the chance to crawl into my bed.” A tremor ran through me, a chill so deep it felt like my heart had turned to ice. That’s not what happened. Four years ago, I had planned to confess my feelings to Robert. I was so nervous at the gala that I had a few too many drinks. My eyes followed him all night, but I never noticed someone swapping my glass. Later, I learned the drugged drink had been meant for Isabelle. But she was too busy flirting with some rich heir, and by a cruel twist of fate, I was the one who drank it. Dizzy and disoriented, I was helped to a room upstairs. A moment later, Robert burst in, his body radiating heat, and pulled me into a rough embrace. He thought I was Isabelle. One passionate, mistaken night. When I woke up the next morning, the warmth was gone. Robert’s face was a mask of cold fury when he saw it was me. He spat out that he would “take responsibility,” but at our wedding, he announced he’d already married Isabelle. It was Ian who stopped me from making a scene. Ian who told me the truth—or what I thought was the truth. That it was him. That the child was his. After we married, I was eight months pregnant when a glass of orange juice sent me into premature labor. I woke up in the hospital to Ian, his eyes red and swollen, telling me our baby had died just moments after birth. The grief was a physical blow; I nearly fainted from the pain. Ian stayed with me all night, holding me, his kisses a tender, heartbreaking comfort on my forehead. “It’s okay, Leah,” he whispered. “It’s okay.” “We’ll have another. And another. We’re still young…” He never left my side, gently guiding me out of the darkness of my grief. In the three years that followed, I had three more miscarriages. The doctors all said the same thing: my body was simply too fragile. Ian even hired a top-tier private physician from overseas to help me, to create special supplements and treatments. I never imagined they were all in on it together. “Leah, are you home?” Ian’s familiar footsteps echoed up the stairs, growing closer. The door swung open. His gaze, as always, was tender as it landed on me. “The driver said you just got back from the clinic?” he asked, his voice soft with concern. “What did the doctor say…” His eyes fell on the table, where the positive pregnancy report I’d forgotten to hide lay in plain sight. Before I could move, he had snatched it up. His brow furrowed as he read the results. I forced myself to breathe, to push down the wave of sorrow and rage. “I’m pregnant,” I said, my voice steady. “Aren’t you happy?” A smile stretched across Ian’s face, a brilliant, practiced performance of joy. “Not happy? Leah, this is wonderful! All our efforts… they finally paid off. We’re finally going to have our baby.” He pulled me into a hug, but his body was stiff, his embrace a cage of lies. I could feel the cold distance between us. “I have to call Dr. Evans right away,” he said, already pulling back. “We need to make sure he takes the best care of you.” He turned and walked quickly toward his study, phone in hand. I heard his voice, muffled but sharp, through the half-closed door. “Dr. Evans, what the hell are you doing? I told you to up the dosage on her ‘supplements.’ I told you to make sure she could never get pregnant again. How did this happen?” A pause. “Fix it. Get something to induce a miscarriage. And just like before, make it look like part of her prenatal care. Be discreet.” I leaned against the wall, a laugh tearing from my throat, sharp and brittle as glass. My tears were silent. This was my husband. The man I had loved and trusted for three years. The man I shared my bed with. Ian returned a few minutes later, his performance flawless. He guided me to the sofa, then knelt before me, placing a gentle hand on my stomach as if to listen. “I need to say hello to our little one,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “Tell them to be good in there, not to give their mommy any trouble.” His tenderness was so convincing it was terrifying. He was a true master of his craft. Later, after spending half the afternoon in his study meticulously drafting a “prenatal plan,” he looked up at me. “Leah, since you’re pregnant, you should take a year off from the university. Just stay home and rest.” I was a professor with only two classes a day; my schedule was hardly strenuous. I knew his suggestion wasn’t about my health. It was about keeping me under his control. Before, I would have melted, thrilled to have such a caring husband. Now, I just shook my head, my face a blank mask. “No, thank you. There’s no guarantee I’ll be able to keep this one, either.” Seeing my resolve, Ian didn’t push. He simply said he’d have Dr. Evans make a house call the next day. That night, claiming I had to prepare for my classes, I locked myself in the study. While Ian was out, I began a frantic search. The photo of the boy… it had to be here. He’d hidden it in a bookshelf. Finally, tucked inside a thick volume on the bottom shelf, I found it. My eyes instantly blurred with tears. The little boy in the picture had my nose, my mouth. It was like looking at a childhood photo of myself. But his eyes… his eyes were Robert’s. From their conversation, I knew he was in an orphanage, but they hadn't said which one. The next day, I announced I was hosting a family dinner at our villa. An impromptu celebration, I called it, mainly to get Robert and Isabelle to come. Ian was surprised. “Why the sudden party? I thought Dr. Evans was coming to check on you.” I managed a small smile. “Isabelle is pregnant, too. It’s a double blessing for the family. We should celebrate together.” In reality, I just needed to find out the name of that orphanage. “Alright,” Ian agreed, his voice instantly lighter at the prospect of seeing Isabelle. “Whatever you want.” The next morning, he spent an eternity in front of the mirror, trying on his most expensive custom-tailored suit, fussing with his hair. It reminded me of something I’d discovered shortly after we were married—a secret room in the basement. It was filled with photo albums, stacks of them, and journals detailing a long, obsessive crush on another girl. When I’d stumbled upon it and asked him who she was, he’d become flustered, mumbling that she was just his first love. I respected his past and never brought it up again. I never dreamed that girl was Isabelle. When I stepped out onto the lawn for the party, Robert and Isabelle were already there. She was six months pregnant, reclining in a lawn chair and screaming at a small, three-year-old boy. “You worthless little gutter rat! Are you blind?” she shrieked. “Do you have any idea how much this dress costs? I could sell you for parts and it wouldn’t be enough! I ought to chop off your hand!” I saw the boy’s face, and my breath caught. It was the face from the photograph. It was Ben. He had been bringing her a cup of coffee and had accidentally spilled some on her skirt. Now he was on the ground, rolling and flinching as she lashed out, begging for mercy. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to!” “Please, please forgive me…” My eyes fixed on the marks covering his small body. Angry red welts from a whip, and thin, silver lines that looked like they’d been made with a knife. Some were fresh, others were old scars. Robert, who knew this was his own son, watched with a cold, detached amusement. “Get on your knees and apologize to Aunt Isabelle,” he said, his voice laced with scorn. “If you make her happy, maybe she’ll let you get up. Don’t forget, the only reason you’re out of that hellhole orphanage is because she was feeling generous. If you’re smart, you’ll be a good little dog.” As he spoke, he casually popped a grape into Isabelle’s mouth. They looked like a perfectly loving couple. Ben, who was only three, had an unnerving maturity and resilience in his eyes. He did as he was told, getting to his knees without a word. “I’m sorry!” Isabelle preened, a smug look on her face. She stuck out her foot. “Since you’re such an obedient dog, why don’t you lick my shoe clean?” “Stop it!” My voice was a roar. I rushed forward, blocking Ben just as he was about to lower his head, and pulled him into my arms. “Isabelle, he’s a child! Have you lost your mind?” I was shaking with fury. To think this monster was the woman I once called a friend. Isabelle just laughed when she saw it was me. “Well, well, if it isn’t my dear sister-in-law. He’s just some nameless orphan, a stray we picked up. The way you’re protecting him, anyone would think he was your own son.” Her words were dripping with insinuation. Robert chimed in with a sneer. “And who the hell are you, Leah? Don’t think that just because you married my brother, you can tell us what to do. Ian may have taken our mother’s name, but I am the true heir. Only a child born from me and Isabelle will be a real Reid, the future head of the corporation. Who are you to interfere with what Isabelle wants to do?” He ordered me to let the boy go. In my arms, Ben looked up at me with a flash of gratitude, but then he deliberately stepped back, putting distance between us. “It’s okay, ma’am,” he whispered. “Thank you, but you don’t have to.” His small voice broke my heart. “I’m used to it.” That was it. My composure shattered. With a cry of rage, I swept my arm across the nearby table, sending food and drinks crashing to the ground. “Isabelle, you should try to do one decent thing in your life! If not for yourself, then for the child you’re carrying!” So much for the damn family dinner. I was done playing their games. I grabbed Ben’s hand and turned to leave. But before we could reach the gate, Ian blocked our path, his face a cold mask. “Leah, what do you think you’re doing?” I’d almost forgotten. He was Isabelle’s most loyal knight. In the next second, Isabelle was at his side, her face streaked with tears, clutching his arm. “Ian, I know you and Leah are close, but… we just adopted this boy. It has nothing to do with her. She flew into a rage and knocked over the table… she scared my baby!” She dabbed at her eyes, a perfect portrait of a fragile, wronged victim. It worked. Ian’s heart melted. His cold glare returned to me. “You’re the one who wanted this party, Leah. Isabelle did nothing wrong. She was just trying to discipline the boy. What right do you have to throw a tantrum? Now put him down and give him back to her.” I held Ben tighter, my voice dripping with ice. “I’ve taken a liking to him. I want to adopt him.” All three of them refused, their voices rising, pressuring me to release the child. But a cold calm had settled over me. I smiled, my gaze landing on Isabelle. “Isabelle, dear. There’s something I need to talk to you about. In private.” I led her up to the second-floor terrace. I deliberately started an argument, provoking her until she was red-faced with anger. Just as I’d planned, she shoved me, hard. Everyone below, and the security cameras, saw it happen. I tumbled over the railing. I landed on the soft grass of the lawn. The fall didn’t kill me, but a warm, sticky wetness began to spread beneath me. I was bleeding. Ian’s face went white. He scrambled toward me. “Leah! Are you okay?”
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