Chapter 3

Ethan played the grieving, devoted husband flawlessly.

"Our baby... I'm shattered, Sarah. I love you."

His words were ash in my mouth.

I remembered the pure joy on his face when I told him I was pregnant, a performance worthy of an award.

He was a stranger, a monster hidden behind a familiar face.

One night, as he slept soundly beside me, his breathing even, I carefully took his hand.

His thumbprint unlocked his phone.

My fingers trembled as I navigated the screen.

Texts from Olivia.

"Ethan, thanks for the new trust fund contribution for Liam, he'll be so well set up."

Photos. Olivia and a small boy, Liam, at the Montauk beach house.

Our Montauk house, the one I' d envisioned filled with our children' s laughter.

Baby items, things I' d lovingly chosen for my son, were now with Liam.

Some were clearly re-gifted, a cruel twist of the knife.

Ethan had even consulted a high-profile PR firm for Liam' s "auspicious" public debut at a major charity gala, just three months away.

My stomach churned.

All this time, I pretended my paralysis was worsening, that I was losing hope.

"The doctors say future pregnancies are highly unlikely, Sarah," one of Ethan' s paid physicians informed me gravely.

I feigned devastation.

"Perhaps... perhaps we could consider adoption?" I whispered, tears streaming down my face.

Ethan readily agreed, a flicker of relief in his eyes. His plan was working, he thought.

Meanwhile, my best friend, Chloe, my rock, arranged for secret, off-the-books physical therapy.

Painful, grueling sessions, hidden from Ethan' s watchful eyes.

He gifted me a specially designed evening gown.

"To help you feel beautiful, darling, despite everything."

I knew its true purpose: to better conceal my slowly improving state at any public appearances he might demand.

Then came the day Ethan, with calculated sensitivity, brought young Liam to visit me in my recovery suite.

A small boy, maybe four or five, with Ethan' s dark hair and Olivia' s sharp eyes.

He clutched a vintage compass.

It was strikingly similar to one Ethan had given me years ago, claiming it was a Miller family heirloom, passed down through generations.

Liam' s, however, looked more authentically aged, more genuinely an heirloom.

Mine was a replica, a lie.

Soon, Olivia Vance appeared. A surgical resident at this very hospital.

She feigned concern for Liam, then for me.

I recognized her now, from photos on Ethan's phone, from brief encounters at his "work events."

During the visit, a distinctive charm "accidentally" slipped from Olivia' s bracelet.

A small silver ship. Part of a set Ethan once owned, a set he claimed he' d lost.

Later, hidden by a privacy screen during a supposed nap, I heard her.

"Does Sarah know the full truth about Liam's parentage?" Olivia' s voice, sharp and urgent. "It' s important for the Foundation gala."

"She' s my wife, Olivia," Ethan reassured her. "She' ll be present. Supportive. It' s expected."

Moments later, a nurse, likely tipped off, rushed in.

"Mrs. Miller! You' ve fallen from your wheelchair trying to reach something!"

I hadn' t. I' d been secretly practicing standing, pushing my limits, when the staffer burst in.

To maintain my cover, I' d twisted my own ankle, a sharp, deliberate movement, collapsing to the floor with a cry of pain.

Ethan rushed in, his face a perfect mask of deep concern and distress.

"Sarah! Oh my God, what happened?"

I just sobbed, playing my part.