Chapter 1

Eight years. I gave Mark eight years of my life.

My software career, once bright, gathered dust while his biotech startup, GenLife, clawed its way up in Boston.

I coded his first prototypes, late into the nights, the glow of the monitor my only company.

I managed our shoestring budget, stretched every dollar until it screamed.

I even nursed his mother through her final, painful battle with cancer, holding her hand when he was too busy with funding rounds.

My small inheritance from my adoptive parents, the only people who ever truly felt like family, became seed money for GenLife. I never asked for credit, wanted him to feel it was all his.

Now, GenLife was a success. And Mark? He was captivated by Cassandra. So was our son, Ben. So were the Winthrops, my biological parents. They' d found me years after my adoption, a surprise discovery.

But Cassandra, the daughter they' d raised – the one mistakenly given to them at the hospital instead of me – she was their golden child.

Cassandra, who Mark met through Winthrop connections. He called her his muse, his intellectual equal. It didn't matter that I was the one who debugged his early algorithms, who understood the core science he often struggled to articulate. Cassandra was charming, and that was enough.

I woke up feeling like my lungs were filled with broken glass. Pneumonia, the doctor had said. A bad case. I was supposed to be resting, but Ben needed picking up from his private school. I glanced at the clock, a jolt of panic. I was late.

I grabbed my phone, my hand shaking. Mark. I called him. Straight to voicemail. Again. And again. My chest tightened with each unanswered ring. Where was he? He knew I was sick. He knew I had to get Ben.

I tried to calm my breathing, scrolling through Instagram for any distraction, any sign. And there it was.

Cassandra' s story. A lavish restaurant, champagne flutes, a cake. Mark was there, beaming. Ben was beside him, looking thrilled. The Winthrops, my biological parents, Mr. and Mrs. Winthrop, were toasting.

The caption read: "Celebrating Cassandra's surprise promotion! So proud! #Family #Success."

A surprise promotion orchestrated by Mr. Winthrop, no doubt.

My blood ran cold. They were all there, celebrating, while I was sick, alone, and frantically trying to reach my husband to pick up our son.

I dragged myself out of bed, the effort making me dizzy. I had to get Ben. I had to see this.

The drive to the restaurant was a blur of feverish anger and a deeper, colder dread. I found them easily, a noisy, glittering group in a private alcove.

I must have looked as terrible as I felt. Pale, sweating, my hair a mess.

Mark saw me first. His smile vanished. Annoyance flashed across his face.

"Sarah," he said, his voice low and impatient. "Don't make a scene. This is Cassandra's night."

Mrs. Winthrop' s eyes raked over me, a small, disdainful smile playing on her lips. "Sarah, dear. You look... unwell."

Mr. Winthrop didn't even soften his gaze. "You should have stayed home."

Cassandra, ever the performer, rushed forward, her expression a perfect mask of concern. "Oh, Sarah, you poor thing! You look dreadful. We were so worried when you didn't answer."

Liar. They hadn't called. Not once.

Then she turned, bright and beaming, towards the elaborate cake. "Mark and Ben designed the molecule model on top! Isn't it brilliant?"