My husband Grant and I had an arrangement. We played our own games on our own time. Until the day he brought home a pregnant woman, and I brought home a five-year-old boy. "Grant, this is my son. He was… lost to me for a while," I said, my voice soft as I stroked the child’s face, a face that was a near-perfect miniature of my own. "He's so young. He needs his mother." The demure, innocent expression on the woman behind Grant froze, cracking like porcelain. Grant’s face went dark. 1 I was about to make a saffron risotto for the "son" I'd just brought back from a bar when the doorbell rang. I went to answer it, spatula in hand, apron tied around my waist, my mood already sour. "Who the hell—" The words died on my lips. Grant stood there, his eyes filled with a familiar disgust, his arm wrapped around a woman with skin like snow and a doll-like face. Her belly was gently rounded. The look she gave me was a cocktail of contempt and triumph. I held my breath for a moment, then let it out in a single, sharp word. "Seriously?" "Sloane, watch your tone," Grant said, his voice as cold as steel. I pointed a finger at the woman, my question a deliberate performance. "What is this?" Grant’s gaze dropped. "She's pregnant," he said flatly. "It's mine. I can't let them suffer." A laugh, sharp and bitter, almost escaped me. The depth of my love for him in the past was matched only by the intensity of my hatred now. I hated him for the sweet nothings of our youth, for the gentle romance, for the solemn vow of "I will never fail you." And I hated him for shattering that beautiful illusion just a few years later. I still remember the day Grant came home, his collar and neck smeared with lipstick. He'd stopped hiding it, parading his infidelity in front of me as if it were a trophy. I screamed at him, my voice raw and cracking. He just loosened his tie, his expression clouded with weariness. "Sloane, can you stop being so dramatic? Business is business. These things happen." "If you can't be a supportive wife, at least don't make my life harder," he'd added. "Look at you. Do you even remember how to act like the woman I married?" Then came the night I went to pick him up from a private club. I found him in a booth, his arm around a girl who couldn't have been more than twenty-two. The way the low light caught the tenderness in his eyes—a look I once thought was reserved only for me—was now being given away so freely to someone else. That was the night he laid out the new rules. "Sloane, let's just do our own thing," he'd said. "Hire an escort, find a boy toy, I don't care what you do. But you don't get to interfere with my life, either." He’d offered a final, hollow assurance. "Don't worry. You'll always be Mrs. Harrison. I won't bring these flings home. Your position is secure." And now, here he was. "She's pregnant. I can't let them suffer." A noble excuse, delivered without a hint of shame, as he brought his affair to my doorstep. The promises of men are ghosts. For the longest time, I thought seeing this would feel like a knife in my heart. After all, I had loved him so fiercely. But now, I was surprised by the profound, unnerving calm that settled over me. The woman spoke, her voice a soft purr. "Sloane… Grant didn't want this to happen. But a child needs his father. You're a generous woman. Surely you can find it in your heart to make room for us? Grant and I… we're in love." As she spoke, a single, perfect tear traced a path down her cheek. A masterclass in calculated fragility. Grant, of course, bought it completely. His expression hardened, his gaze condescending as he warned me, "Sloane, whether you accept this or not, Layla is a good person. Don't you dare try to hurt her." I stared at him. "...Are you fucking kidding me?" 2 "Mommy?" A small, clear voice piped up from behind the sofa. A moment later, a handsome little boy with my eyes and my mouth peeked out. It was only then that I remembered what I'd forgotten. All my melancholy and anger evaporated in a rush of panic. "Oh, shit! My risotto!" I sprinted back to the kitchen. It was too late. The creamy rice was a burnt, sticky mess at the bottom of the pan. Goddammit. Just then, I felt a gentle tug on my finger. "It's okay, Mommy," the little boy said, his wide, earnest eyes looking up at me. "I'm not that hungry anyway." His perfect face, his soft little hand clutching mine… my heart melted. I knelt down and planted a loud kiss on his cheek. "I'll let myself starve before I let my sweet boy go hungry," I murmured. "Mommy will make something else. Mommy makes the best grilled cheese in the world." The toxic couple in my foyer was completely forgotten. My universe had shrunk to this adorable "son" of mine. I could feel Grant’s unease from across the room. He had been married to me for nine years. He knew damn well that in all that time, I had never been pregnant. His voice trembled slightly. "Sloane… who is he?" Only then did I seem to remember they were still there. I lifted my gaze lazily. "Grant, this is my son. He was lost to me for a while." I looked down at the boy, my voice laced with manufactured pity. "As you can see, he's very young. A boy needs his mother." The weak, innocent facade on Layla's face shattered. Grant’s face went black with rage. "Sloane!" he roared, his eyes turning red, a storm of fury gathering around him. He couldn't accept it. It was as if he could sleep with the entire city, but the thought of me being with someone else was unforgivable. The little boy pouted, his brow furrowed. "Mister, you're scary." Then, he turned to me, his expression melting into a soft, angelic smile. He wrapped his little arms around my legs and hugged me tight. "You shouldn't be mean to my mommy. I would never be mean to my mommy." 3 My heart skipped a beat, then began to hammer against my ribs like a drum. Adorable! How could he deliver that line with such devastating cuteness? I wanted to scoop him up and never let go. But I restrained myself. There were still two pieces of trash to take out. I gently covered the boy's ears and shot Grant a mocking look. "What are you so angry about? Weren't these your rules? We don't interfere with each other." A vein pulsed in Grant's temple. He ground his teeth, struggling to contain his rage. His voice was a low, furious growl. "Play around all you want, Sloane, but who the fuck gave you permission to have another man's child?" "Permission?" I shot back, my voice dripping with scorn. "You bring your pregnant mistress to my home and tell me you can't let them suffer, but I can't have another man's child? Do you really think you have the right to ask me that?" I let out a cold laugh. "Grant, don't be such a goddamn hypocrite." He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling. Then, a sneer twisted his lips as if he'd figured it all out. "Sloane, are you jealous? Did you really grab one of your cousin's kids just to get my attention? This little game of yours… it's not going to work on me anymore." "..." I honestly couldn't comprehend how the bright, handsome boy I'd fallen in love with had devolved into this greasy, arrogant, and utterly delusional man. Was I blind back then, or just stupid? He looked down at the boy with contempt. "Sloane, get rid of this little bastard right now, and I'll pretend this never happened." CRACK! The sound of my palm connecting with his cheek echoed in the kitchen. He stared at me, his eyes wide with disbelief. I flexed my stinging hand. The last thing I wanted was to be violent in front of a child, but the moment he said "little bastard," I couldn't stop myself. "Mr. Harrison!" Layla shrieked, glaring at me. "How could you do that to him?" CRACK! I slapped her too, right in front of Grant. Layla was stunned. "You hit me..." she stammered, and then, forgetting her delicate act, lunged at me. I calmly lifted my foot, my voice flat. "Do you want to keep the baby in your belly, or not?" She froze, instinctively clutching her stomach, her eyes pleading with Grant. "Sloane, she..." "Both of you, get out," I cut her off, my patience gone. I turned my cold gaze back to Grant. "You cheated. I moved on. You're about to have a child. I already have one. I'd say that makes us even." With that, I pulled a folded document from my apron pocket and threw it at his chest. A DNA report. I didn't want him indulging in any more fantasies that this was all a joke. "He is my son," I said, my voice like ice. "And I am his biological mother." The words on the report—"The probability of maternity is 99.999%"—seemed to burn into his eyes. "Are you done looking? If you are, get the hell out of my house. Now. Don't keep me from making dinner for my son."
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