Chapter 3

I woke up to the same sunlight, the same soft sheets, the same dawning horror. But this time, the horror was mixed with a jolt of adrenaline, a cold, clear purpose. This was a chess game, and I had just been given the board back for a third time. I finally knew a fraction of the rules.

The first rule: get the report.

I didn't wait for Liam to bring me breakfast. I didn't feign sleep. I got up, got dressed, and walked into the living room with a forced, placid smile.

"Morning," I said, kissing his cheek. The feel of his skin against my lips made my stomach churn, but I pushed it down. "I'm going to run out and get some fresh croissants. Be right back."

"I can go," he offered, his face a perfect mask of husbandly care.

"No, no. The fresh air will do me good," I said, already grabbing my keys. "I won't be long."

I didn't go to the bakery. I went straight to the lab that had processed the test. I walked in, my heart pounding, and explained that my husband and I were anxious for the results and that our email seemed to be down. I played the part of the excited, slightly impatient mother-to-be. A compassionate-looking nurse checked my ID, smiled, and printed a copy for me.

"Here you go, Mrs. Patterson. Congratulations," she said.

I thanked her, my hand shaking as I took the folded papers. I didn't dare look at them yet. I shoved the thick envelope into my purse, a ticking bomb against my hip.

Back at the apartment, the day became a tightrope walk. Liam was home, working on a new design, and I could feel his anticipation, his anxiety coiling in the air. He kept glancing at his phone, at his email.

"Did you hear anything from the doctor?" he asked casually around noon, his eyes not leaving his laptop.

"Not yet," I lied, my voice smooth as glass. "You know how slow they can be."

I needed to read it. I needed a safe place. I made an excuse about needing a bath and locked myself in the bathroom. My hands trembled so badly I could barely unfold the papers. I sat on the edge of the tub and forced myself to read the clinical, black-and-white text.

It was dense with medical jargon, charts of chromosomes, and genetic markers. I scanned the pages, my eyes searching for the summary, for the part a layperson could understand. I found the paternal DNA section. And then I saw it.

Paternal Match Probability (Liam Patterson): 0%

The air left my lungs. Not Liam's. The baby wasn't Liam's. My mind reeled. How was that possible? I had never been with anyone else. It made no sense. It had to be a mistake. A lab error.

But then my eyes caught another line, a note from the geneticist. Anomalous finding: The paternal DNA shows a significant match for a first-degree relative of the mother, Chloe Patterson.

A first-degree relative. Father. Brother.

My blood ran cold. My father? Daniel? A sick, horrifying memory, fragmented and dark, tried to surface from the depths of my childhood. A shadow in a doorway. A hand over my mouth. A whisper of "our little secret." It was a memory I had buried, convinced it was a nightmare. But it wasn't a nightmare. It was my uncle. My mother's brother. The family scandal they never spoke of. He wasn't a first-degree relative, but the genetic overlap was close enough to trigger the flag. The "tainted" child. The "unnatural" thing. It wasn't about the baby's health. It was about my family's pristine image. This baby was living, breathing evidence of a crime they had all conspired to hide.

I felt a splash of cold water and looked down. The papers had slipped from my numb fingers into the bathwater. I snatched them out, but it was too late. The ink was blurring, the pages ruined.

A sharp knock came at the door. "Chloe? Are you alright? You've been in there for a long time." It was Liam.

I shoved the soggy papers under a pile of towels and opened the door. "Just relaxing," I said, my voice hoarse.

I spent the next hour in a daze, the horrifying truth replaying in my mind. My family hadn't just tried to kill my child. They had been covering up my rape for my entire life.

I must have let my guard down. I went to the kitchen for a glass of water, leaving my purse on the living room sofa. When I came back, Liam was standing there, holding it. My heart stopped.

"Looking for this?" he asked, his voice dangerously low. He pulled the damp, ruined report from my bag. He couldn't read the details, but he knew what it was.

The mask was gone. The monster was back.

"You went behind my back," he hissed, his face contorting with rage. "You couldn't just listen, could you?"

He lunged at me. This time, I was ready. I didn't cower. I didn't scream. I dodged him and ran. I didn't run for the back alley. I ran for the front door. I threw it open and sprinted out into the hallway of our apartment building, straight for the elevator.

"HELP!" I screamed, my voice echoing in the polished marble lobby. "SOMEBODY HELP ME! HE'S TRYING TO HURT ME!"

I jabbed the button for the lobby, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The doors started to close just as Liam reached them. He tried to pry them open, his face a mask of pure fury.

The elevator descended. I saw Mrs. Gable from 3B waiting in the lobby, her small dog yapping at her feet. She stared, wide-eyed, as the doors opened and I stumbled out, sobbing.

"My husband," I gasped, pointing a shaking finger back at the elevator. "He attacked me."

Liam came hurtling down the stairs, his face red with exertion and rage. He saw Mrs. Gable and skidded to a halt, his expression shifting instantly to one of deep concern.

"Chloe, honey, calm down," he said, his voice smooth and placating. "She's not well. She's been having delusions."

"He's lying!" I shouted, backing away. "He's the monster!"

Mrs. Gable looked from me to him, her expression hardening with suspicion at his aggressive pursuit. "Young man, you should leave her alone," she said, pulling her dog closer.

Liam's face tightened. His plan was falling apart. The public nature of it was thwarting him. Defeated for the moment, he pulled out his phone and made a call. I knew who he was calling. He was calling for reinforcements.

"They're on their way," he mouthed at me silently, a cruel smirk playing on his lips.

My family was coming. But this time, we weren't in the privacy of our home. This time, we had an audience. I saw my brother, Daniel, try to grab Liam in a display of protective rage, but Liam subtly flashed the soggy, incriminating papers, and Daniel froze, the document's secret power stopping him cold. The curtain was about to rise on a very public performance.