“I sent a cease-and-desist to your senior partners and a direct threat of a defamation lawsuit against David. Your job is safe. But Lauren, there’s something else.” Evelyn paused, the silence heavy. “David’s mother, Eleanor.”
I groaned. Eleanor Vance was a woman who wielded her social standing like a broadsword. She had never thought I was good enough for her son, entirely too middle-class, too ambitious.
“What did Eleanor do?” I asked, dreading the answer.
“She’s hosting a dinner party tomorrow night at the estate. A grand, catered affair. She’s officially welcoming Peyton into the family. She’s framing it as a ‘celebration of new beginnings’—which, presumably, includes Peyton’s miraculous immaculate conception.”
I pulled into my driveway, the house dark and empty. David’s absence was a physical void in the living room, but looking at it now, it didn’t feel like a loss. It felt like a cleared battlefield.
“Evelyn,” I said slowly, a dangerous idea blooming in my mind. “I think I need to attend that dinner.”
“Lauren, that’s walking into a firing squad. They will humiliate you.”
“No,” I corrected her, picking up the glossy ultrasound photos from the passenger seat. I stared at the two tiny, blurry shapes that had just saved my life. “They are going to try. But they are operating on outdated intelligence. Send a private investigator to dig into Peyton’s medical records. If she’s faking this pregnancy, I want the proof in my hand by 6:00 PM tomorrow.”
“You’re playing a dangerous game, Lauren.”
“I’m not playing,” I said, my voice dropping to a whisper. “I’m ending it.”
The next twenty-four hours were a blur of adrenaline and nausea. The twin pregnancy was making itself known, twisting my stomach into knots, but I refused to let it slow me down. I met with Evelyn in her high-rise office downtown. She slid a manila envelope across the mahogany table.
“You were right,” Evelyn said, a fierce, respectful grin on her face. “Peyton isn’t pregnant. But she did visit a clinic last week. An aesthetics clinic. She had a minor surgical procedure to implant a saline bump to mimic early pregnancy bloating. She’s been buying fake ultrasounds off a novelty website.”
I opened the envelope. Inside were the receipts. The emails. The undeniable proof of a woman so desperate for wealth she was willing to fabricate a human life.
At six-thirty the next evening, I stood before the towering wrought-iron gates of the Vance estate in Scottsdale. I wore a sleek, tailored black dress—the kind of dress you wear to a funeral. My hair was pulled back perfectly. I looked nothing like the weeping, discarded wife they expected.
