Chapter 1

I was an artist who gave up my career for my tech CEO husband, Jakob. Pregnant with our child, I believed our life was a perfect dream built on his genius.

That dream shattered when I discovered his genius was a lie, built on stolen code. Then I overheard his real plan: to drug me, publicly ruin me, and auction off my body after murdering our unborn child.

At our anniversary gala, he forced drugged champagne into my hand. I watched him destroy my art-my last dream-before I collapsed, losing our baby on the cold museum floor.

They left me for dead, having taken everything-my love, my art, my dignity, and my child.

After I survived, I walked into the interrogation room where he was being held. I showed him a fabricated DNA report proving the baby was his, alongside a real document proving he'd had a secret vasectomy.

He broke down, believing he'd murdered the son he never knew he could have. "I'll do anything," he sobbed.

"Then sign these," I said calmly, pushing the divorce papers and a full transfer of his billion-dollar empire across the table.

Chapter 1

My perfect life. It felt like a warm, comforting blanket, woven with threads of shared dreams and unconditional love. Jakob, my husband, my rock, my brilliant tech CEO. Our penthouse apartment, a glass marvel overlooking the city, was a testament to his genius, his company's meteoric rise. I, Clara Stone, a burgeoning artist before love convinced me to put down my brushes, had built my world around him, around us. I truly believed in his "genius" software, the innovative code that promised to revolutionize the industry. I believed in our future, a future I had sacrificed so much for, happily.

Every morning, I woke beside him, the city lights still twinkling, and a quiet sense of contentment filled me. Our anniversary gala was approaching, a grand event at the city's most prestigious museum-the same museum where, ironically, some of my early, forgotten sculptures were still displayed in a quiet corner. I saw it as a full-circle moment, a beautiful convergence of our separate paths into one magnificent journey.

This morning, I was tidying up Jakob's home office. It was a ritual, a small way I contributed to his demanding schedule, making sure his organized chaos remained functional. His desk, usually a fortress of sleek gadgets and complex diagrams, was a bit messier than usual. A stack of files teetered precariously near his expensive ergonomic keyboard.

As I carefully restacked them, a loose panel on the side of his custom-built desk caught my eye. It wasn't completely flush. A small, almost imperceptible gap. My artist's eye, always attuned to imperfections, nudged me. I pressed it gently.

It clicked inward, revealing a shallow, hidden compartment. Curiosity, a dangerous thing, pricked at me. Inside, nestled on a velvet lining, was a sleek, unmarked USB drive. I picked it up. Its cold metal felt heavy in my palm, heavier than it should have.

A strange premonition, a flutter of unease, settled in my stomach. This wasn't like Jakob. He was meticulous, almost pathologically so, about his work. Hidden compartments and unmarked drives didn't fit his image of transparent brilliance.

I hesitated for a moment, my thumb tracing the smooth surface of the USB. Then, an insistent voice in my head, a whisper of suspicion I couldn' t quite place, urged me on. I walked over to his laptop, inserted the drive.

A folder popped open, labeled only with a string of numbers. Inside, a single file. `Project Chimera - Alpha Code (Final Build)`. My breath hitched. That name. Chimera. It was the name of the software that had launched Jakob' s company into the stratosphere. The software he had touted as his magnum opus.

I opened the file. What flashed on the screen wasn't a document, but lines upon lines of raw code, complex algorithms, and intricate data structures. My knowledge of coding was basic, but I recognized the elegant logic, the clean architecture. It was undeniably brilliant. Too brilliant for even Jakob to have created entirely on his own.

Then, my eyes caught a detail. A timestamp. Not Jakob' s usual development dates, but something older. Much older. And then, at the very top of the code, a comment line: `// Initiated by Elias Thorne.`

Elias Thorne. The name was a punch to the gut. Elias Thorne, the prodigy programmer who had died tragically in a car accident three years ago, before he could launch his own revolutionary project. Jakob had always spoken of him with a dismissive air, a brilliant but ultimately unlucky competitor. Now, here was Elias Thorne' s name, etched into the foundational code of Jakob's empire.

The room spun. My stomach lurched, bile rising in my throat. Elias Thorne' s code. Stolen. Plagiarized. Jakob' s "genius" was a lie. A cold, clammy sweat broke out on my skin. This couldn't be true. Jakob wouldn't. He couldn't.

My hands trembled so violently I had to grip the desk to steady myself. The polished wood felt rough against my shaking palms. I tried to swallow, but my throat was suddenly dry, constricted.

This perfect life, the lavish apartment, the glittering galas, the quiet pride in his achievements-was it all built on a stolen corpse? Was I living a lie, a beautiful, gilded lie?

A wave of nausea crashed over me, stronger this time. My vision blurred at the edges. My head throbbed. The air in the room suddenly felt thin, suffocating. I needed to get out. I needed answers. Now.

I snatched the USB drive, pulled it from the laptop, and shoved it into my pocket. My movements were jerky, desperate. I stumbled out of the office, the elegant, silent apartment suddenly feeling like a tomb.

The drive to Jakob' s office was a blur of flashing lights and distorted sounds. My mind raced, fragments of memories colliding: Jakob's boastful pronouncements, Alden Boyer's knowing smiles, the hushed rumors of Thorne's unfinished work. It all clicked into place with horrifying clarity. Each piece of the puzzle, once innocuous, now screamed betrayal.

I burst into the sleek, minimalist lobby of Johnson Tech, my appearance undoubtedly disheveled, my breath ragged. I ignored the receptionist's surprised glance, marching straight to the elevators, my finger stabbing the button for the executive floor.

As the elevator doors opened, a muted roar of laughter reached me from down the hall. Jakob's office. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat of dread. I slowed my pace, creeping closer, the sound of their voices morphing from distant hums to distinct words.

"-and she actually believes it," Jakob' s voice, thick with amusement, cut through the air. "The devoted artist, sacrificing her career for my 'vision.' It' s almost touching."

My blood ran cold. I pressed myself against the wall, hidden by a large potted plant, my ears straining.

Alden Boyer' s cynical chuckle followed. "Well, she' s certainly played her part. Made you look like the family man, the stable genius. All good for the IPO."

IPO. The company was going public. Billions.

"And the beauty of it," Jakob continued, his voice dripping with condescension, "is that she' ll be clueless until it' s too late. We sell, cash out, and then... poof. The fraud gets exposed, everyone points fingers at the dead guy, and I' m long gone."

"And Clara?" Alden asked, a hint of cruel pleasure in his tone. "What happens to our little artist then? When her carefully constructed world implodes?"

Jakob laughed. A harsh, ugly sound I' d never heard before. "Who cares? She' s a beautiful accessory, Alden. Always has been. A trophy wife who outlived her shelf life. Besides, we have the 'liability file,' ready to go if she even thinks about getting suspicious. Corporate espionage, a few doctored emails... she' ll be too busy defending herself to realize she' s been left with absolutely nothing."

"A pity about the potential heir, though," Alden mused. "Such a waste of good genes."

Jakob scoffed. "Please. Another mouth to feed? Another distraction? Besides, I wouldn' t want a child who thinks he' s a Johnson but is actually the spawn of some random hookup. It was your idea to seed a few 'tests' into the mix, wasn' t it, Alden? Just to ensure plausible deniability."

My hand flew to my belly. A sharp, agonizing kick. My baby. Our baby. The life growing inside me. They knew. They knew I was pregnant. And they were mocking it. Mocking him.

The world tilted. My heart wasn' t just breaking; it was shattering into a million icy shards. The warmth, the comfort, the love-all illusions. All lies. Jakob, the man I loved, the father of my child, had just casually dismissed our unborn baby as a "distraction" and me as a "trophy wife," while planning my public humiliation and ruin.

And Alden. Alden Boyer, whom I had always admired, Jakob' s mentor, a man I thought was kind. He was the architect of this cruelty. He was the one who had orchestrated this monstrous bet.

A cold, hard rage began to crystallize within me, pushing aside the raw grief. My tears, hot and stinging moments ago, dried on my cheeks. This wasn' t just betrayal. This was a war. And they had just declared it.

I mechanically backed away, the laughter from Jakob's office echoing like a death knell in my ears. My feet moved on their own, guiding me back to the elevator. I pressed the ground floor button, my finger numb.

As soon as I was in my car, I pulled out my phone. My hands were still shaking, but my voice, when I spoke, was steady, eerily calm. "I need an appointment. As soon as possible. I want to terminate my pregnancy."

My breath hitched on the last word, but I didn't break. The decision, born of the deepest despair and coldest fury, was absolute.

"Tomorrow morning." I said. "First thing."

The receptionist's voice on the other end of the line sounded confused by my abruptness.

"Is everything alright, ma'am?" she asked softly.

"Everything," I whispered, staring blindly at the city lights, "is about to change."