I burst into our penthouse, the pregnancy test crumpled in my fist like a secret too bright to hold. "We’re having a baby!" I meant to shout, but the words died in my throat. The bedroom door was open. Skin on skin. His hand in her hair. Lena. My best friend since college. My maid of honor. And him—my husband—jerking upright with that guilty gasp that confirms everything.

I didn’t scream. Didn’t cry. Just backed away, numb, my hand pressed to the soft curve of my still-flat stomach. This wasn’t supposed to happen. We’d fought for this pregnancy for years. IVF. Pain. Hope. And now—this.

Then my phone rang. Unknown number. The clinic. Dr. Chen’s voice, tight with panic: "Ms. Vale, there’s been a critical error. The sperm sample… it wasn’t your husband’s. You’re carrying Damien Voss’s child."