Before my father died, he arranged a marriage for me. The groom-to-be was Adrian Blackwood, the most untouchable tycoon in the city. Before I married him, I set three rules for myself: One: No emotions, only dividends. Two: He could do his thing, and I would do mine. Three: If his one true love ever showed up, I would step aside immediately—for double the alimony. Adrian was perfectly satisfied with my pragmatism. Until the day a seventeen-year-old boy with a striking resemblance to him knocked on our villa door and calmly announced, “Ma’am, I’m Adrian Blackwood’s son. He’s been raising me in secret.” 1 I froze for a solid two seconds. My first thought was, Adrian is better at keeping secrets than I thought. My second thought was to mentally review our prenuptial agreement. What was rule number three again? Oh, right. If his one true love ever shows up, I step aside for double the alimony. I immediately stepped aside, my tone all business. “Come in. He’s not home from work yet. Have a seat. What would you like to drink?” The boy was clearly not expecting this reaction. He hesitated. “You’re… not angry?” Angry? What was there to be angry about? I had been practically praying for Adrian to have an affair. Then he could throw a few million in alimony my way, and I could finally start my life as a wealthy divorcée. I watched him change his shoes. At seventeen, he already had the frame of an adult. His features were Adrian’s, but his aura was much cleaner, less severe. “What’s your name?” “Cole.” I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and handed it to him. “Cole,” I said, my voice reassuring, “your father and I have a contract marriage. It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement. I have no right to be angry about his private life.” The boy clutched the water bottle, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He didn’t say anything. I sat down on the armchair across from him, the coffee table a safe distance between us. The resemblance was uncanny. It took me back three years, to my father on his deathbed, gripping Adrian’s hand and entrusting me to him. The Blackwood family owed my father a life, and Adrian repaid that debt with this marriage. The night before we registered our marriage, he handed me a prenup. I skimmed it, then held up three fingers. “I’d like to add three clauses.” “One: No emotions, only dividends.” “Two: You do your thing, I’ll do mine.” “Three: The day your true love comes knocking, I’ll step aside immediately for double the alimony.” He signed it without a moment’s hesitation. “Done.” We never spoke a single word of love. After the wedding, we lived in separate rooms, ate our meals separately. He was out of the country twenty days a month, and in the remaining ten, we saw each other less than he saw his secretary. Three years ago, at the courthouse, he walked in ahead of me, signed the papers, and got the stamp. He never once looked back. It didn’t feel like a wedding. It felt like the closing of a business deal. 2 Adrian came home while I was curled up on the sofa watching a reality show. His footsteps paused beside the couch. I turned the volume up a notch and kept watching. He didn't go upstairs. I glanced over. He was just standing there, his gaze heavy on me. “Who did you see today?” I paused the TV and sat up straight. “Mr. Blackwood, your sources are impressive. A rather handsome young man came by. Said he was your son. You’ve done a remarkable job keeping him a secret.” The air went still. His face was a blank mask. But he didn’t deny it. “I’ll handle this.” I nodded and stood up. As I passed him, I hesitated. “Right. If you need me to cooperate with the divorce proceedings, just let me know.” I couldn’t help myself. I had to add, “You do remember the clause about double the alimony, don’t you?” He looked down at me, his eyes dark and intense. I waited a few seconds, the atmosphere growing stranger by the moment, then turned and fled upstairs. I leaned against the closed door, staring up at the ceiling light. All this time, while he was supposedly busy with business trips, I thought our marriage was a blank slate. Turns out, he already had a true love and an heir stashed away somewhere. I pulled out my phone and opened my banking app. The initial transfer he’d made before our marriage was sitting right there in my account details. Ten million. Double that would be twenty million. He waited until his son was seventeen to reveal him. That had to be some form of fraud, right? So, asking for an extra five million wouldn't be unreasonable, would it? 3 At one-thirty in the morning, I was still tossing and turning. After much hesitation, I opened my contacts and found the name “Mr. Anderson.” He was the lawyer I’d added three years ago when we signed the prenup. His profile picture was a golden retriever, and his posts were only visible for three days. I opened our chat. Type. Delete. Type. Delete. Finally, I sent a single message: [Mr. Anderson, I have a question. If you’re busy, feel free to ignore this.] He replied instantly: [Go ahead.] Quite the dedicated professional. I chose my words carefully. [Let's say, hypothetically, I have a friend whose husband had a child before they got married and never told her.] [Mm-hmm.] [That would be considered concealment of a major fact, right? The verbal agreement for double alimony in case of an affair—could that apply here?] [This friend of yours, what were the specific terms of her agreement?] I stared at the screen. I couldn't say it was me. I couldn’t be too specific. The name “Mrs. Blackwood” whispered in the city’s legal circles would be enough to socially kill me ten times over. I typed: [My friend didn’t have a written prenup. Her husband verbally promised to leave with nothing if he cheated.] Even as I sent it, I knew it sounded fake. The “typing…” indicator appeared and stayed for a long time. [Your friend is quite… trusting.] I was speechless. [Mr. Anderson, the point isn’t her trust issues.] [The point is what she can get now.] My fingers hovered over the screen. Twenty million… twenty-five would be even better. Adrian’s handsome face couldn’t pay the bills, but money could. [Alimony. Preferably double.] [Is there any proof that the husband acknowledged the child?] I thought of Cole’s face. I thought of Adrian saying, “His name is Cole. I’ll handle this.” He hadn’t denied it. Did that count as an admission? I typed: [She said her husband didn’t deny it. Does that count?] [A verbal admission counts, but it’s better to have a recording, chat logs, or a witness.] [A witness… do I count?] I dropped my phone onto the bed. Five seconds later, the screen lit up again. Mr. Anderson: [Mrs. Blackwood, I can’t take on a case involving the Blackwood family, but I can recommend a colleague who specializes in family law.] … I had to laugh at my own stupidity. 4 While I was busy contacting lawyers and looking into divorce proceedings over the next couple of days, Cole showed up again. I was decanting a bottle of red wine at the dining table when I heard a noise from the entryway. Adrian walked in first, with the boy half a step behind him. Adrian pulled out a chair. “Cole is transferring to a school here. He’ll be staying with us until the paperwork is finalized.” Well, well. Bringing the illegitimate son home for all to see. The true love can’t be far behind, demanding her rightful place, can she? Divorce. It was a must. As I mentally calculated the child support, I called out to the kitchen, “Anna, two extra dishes tonight, please.” A six-course meal with soup was served. I placed a piece of sweet and sour pork into the twenty-five-million-dollar—I mean, Cole’s—bowl. “Have you found a school yet?” I asked considerately. He looked down. “Yes.” “What grade?” “Eleventh.” “Are you keeping up with your studies?” His chopsticks paused. “It’s fine.” I added some vegetables to his bowl. “It’s getting cold. There are extra blankets in the guest room closet.” He didn’t respond or look up, his entire focus on the rice in his bowl. Adrian was silent too. A pair of clams, father and son. After dinner, as the dishes were being cleared, I went to the kitchen for some fruit. I sliced an orange with practiced precision, arranging the segments symmetrically on a plate. Footsteps stopped behind me. “Aren't you going to ask about my situation? Don’t you care that he’s been fooling around outside?” Cole’s voice was a little hoarse. I arranged the eight orange slices on a white porcelain plate. “That’s between you two. I’m only here to cooperate with your father’s arrangements.” “…You really don’t care at all?” I turned off the tap and dried my hands on a towel, my smile flawless. “Kid, we have a contract marriage.” I hung the towel back on the rack, my smile enigmatic. “Caring too much would be a breach of contract.” He didn't say anything else, his eyes fixed on my face as if searching for something. But as I turned to leave with the fruit platter, I saw Adrian standing in the kitchen doorway. 5 After that day, Adrian started coming home less and less. When the housekeeper asked how many place settings to prepare, I told her two. With the master of the house absent, no one found it odd that the wife and the illegitimate son were coexisting peacefully. On Friday afternoon, a file arrived from the lawyer I’d contacted, Ms. Chen. [Mrs. Blackwood, here is the initial draft of the evidence list for the divorce proceedings. Please review it.] I opened it. Clause seven: [The husband concealed the existence of a child born out of wedlock, constituting a major fault.] “Ma’am.” At the sound of Cole’s voice, I discreetly closed the file. He was standing at the entrance to the patio, his eyes fixed on me. “What were you looking at?” I put my phone face down. “Work stuff.” He didn’t move. “You’re lying. Adrian has been supporting you ever since you got married. You’ve never had a job. Ma’am, are you… are you divorcing him because of me? You can’t divorce him.” “Why not?” I asked. His back was to me, his voice low. “Because…” This little brat! Leaving me hanging! He turned and walked away without finishing his sentence. The next day, he was up early. I sat on the sofa, flipping through my notes. He watched me. I went to get a glass of water. He followed me to the kitchen doorway. I came back. He sat back down. Finally, I snapped my laptop shut. “Cole, is there something wrong with you?” He didn’t deny it, just repeated yesterday’s line: “You can’t divorce him.” I stared at him. “Isn’t that the whole point of you showing up? To let me know he cheated and to ruin our marriage?” He pursed his lips. “Well, yes, but…” “Then why are you trying to stop me?” He looked down, silent again. I got up and went into the study, shutting the door with a firm click, leaving him outside. Five minutes later, a piece of paper was slipped under the door. It was folded in half, torn from a notebook. The handwriting was heavy, piercing the paper in two places. 6 [I am not his son. You don’t need to divorce him.] [If you stay with the Blackwoods, at least you’ll have money. My mother was the same way. She refused to go back to them, and later, when she got sick, there was no money for treatment. I just don't like Adrian, but I don't want to hurt you.] I stood there for a long time, clutching the piece of paper. I opened the door. He was still standing in the hallway. “Your mother…” “She thought she could raise me without a title, without money, without disturbing his marriage. Later, when she got sick and had no money for treatment, she said it wasn't anyone's fault.” When Adrian came home, I called out to him. “Adrian.” He stopped. “That boy’s mother.” There was no moon outside. He stood in the sliver of light from the doorway, his silhouette blurred. “What really happened?” “Cole is my father’s son. My father only found out about him shortly before he died, so there was nothing left for him in the will. But his mother contacted mine before she passed. She said my father didn't know, and she didn't plan on telling him. She was just afraid she wouldn't make it and the boy would be left alone.” I was taken aback. Adrian's father had died in a car accident three years ago. His voice was low and flat. “His mother was my father's mistress. The Blackwood family wouldn't acknowledge her.” I leaned against the headboard. “So all these years…” “I tried to give them money, but his mother refused it. It wasn’t until she got very sick that she finally accepted.” He paused. “Before she died, she had someone bring the boy to me, with a message.” “What was the message?” He looked up, his gaze meeting mine across the half-open door. “Don’t let the boy go back to the Blackwood family.” 7 I didn't say anything. Although Adrian rarely took me to the Blackwood estate, I knew it was a place that chewed people up and spat them out. He stood in the shadows, his expression unreadable. “My mother tried to help them once. But…” “When my grandmother found out, she used some flimsy excuse to make my mother kneel in front of everyone at a banquet. She knelt for a whole night. My father was at the card table that night. He never even glanced her way.” Adrian’s mother and my mother had been good friends. I vaguely remembered my parents discussing it at the dinner table when I was a child, sighing over her fate. Suddenly, I understood why Adrian had done what he did. He didn't want Cole to suffer the same way he had. He lowered his eyes. “Cole doesn't know any of this. He only knows that I’m his half-brother. He thinks I’m hiding him away, afraid he’ll come back and fight for the inheritance.” My mouth fell open. Blinded by the prospect of a massive alimony payment, I had overlooked a crucial detail. Adrian was twenty-seven. Cole was seventeen. If Cole were Adrian’s son, Adrian would have had to have a child at the age of ten. “So… Cole isn’t your son.” He looked at me. It wasn't an accusation, just a calm, steady gaze. But there was a hint of disbelief in his voice. “You really thought he was my son?” I didn’t deny it. He was silent for a couple of seconds, then sighed. “Catherine, what goes on in that head of yours?” I closed my eyes, mourning my lost twenty-five million. “Really… just incredible.” That night, after we had both retreated to our separate rooms, I opened my phone. The chat with Ms. Chen was still open to her last message: [Mrs. Blackwood, the lawsuit materials can be submitted next week.] I typed four words. [Let's put it on hold.] After sending the message, I buried my face in my pillow. Twenty-five million, gone. I could cry.
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