Chapter 3

A few days later, Sarah called. Her voice was calm, almost cheerful, as if our last conversation had been a minor disagreement over dinner plans.

"Ethan, we need to talk. I think it's time you met the boys."

I was silent, gripping the phone so hard my knuckles turned white.

"They're wonderful, really," she continued, oblivious to my shock. "And they're so excited to meet you. I know you'll love them once you get to know them. We can be a family. A different kind of family, but a family."

The sheer audacity of it left me breathless. She wasn't just admitting her betrayal; she was trying to rebrand it as a quirky, modern family arrangement. And I was expected to just accept it.

"No," I said, my voice flat.

"Ethan, don't be like this. My father's 70th birthday party is this weekend. Everyone will be there. It's the perfect opportunity."

It wasn't a request. It was a command.

I hung up, but her words planted a seed of cold dread. I knew I couldn't trust anything she said. I called the private investigator again. "I need everything you can find on Sarah Jenkins and Liam O'Connell for the last ten years."

The file he sent me was a digital dagger to the heart. It wasn't just photos. It was videos of family vacations I thought she took with her "college girlfriends." It was copies of school enrollment forms where Liam was listed as "Father" and the emergency contact was "Sarah Jenkins (Mother)." It was a copy of a preliminary agreement, drafted eleven years ago, outlining Liam's "parental rights" and Sarah's "financial obligations" to him and the future children. This wasn't a mistake. It was a contract.

Against my better judgment, I went to the party. I had to see it for myself. I had to see the lie in its natural habitat.

The Jenkins' sprawling suburban home, the one I had helped Sarah's parents put a down payment on, was buzzing with people. But the moment I walked in, I felt a chill. Old family friends who used to greet me with a warm hug now offered a polite, distant nod. Sarah's aunts and uncles avoided my eyes. I was no longer part of the inner circle. I was the problem.

Sarah's mother, a woman who used to call me her "favorite son," walked right past me with a plate of appetizers and a tight, disapproving frown. She went straight to a man standing by the fireplace, laughing and talking with Sarah's father.

Liam O'Connell.

He was handsome in a slick, predatory way. Expensive suit, perfect hair, a smile that didn't reach his eyes. Sarah was standing next to him, her hand resting possessively on his arm. They looked like the hosts. I looked like the hired help.

Then, Sarah saw me. She smiled, a bright, false smile, and waved me over. "Ethan! There you are! Come, I want you to meet someone."

Two boys, dressed in identical polo shirts and khaki pants, were standing in front of Liam. They had Sarah's eyes and Liam's smug expression.

"Boys, this is Ethan," Sarah said, her voice dripping with forced sweetness. "He's... a very special friend of Mommy's."

Luke and Ben, I presumed. They looked me up and down with open disdain. One of them, I couldn't tell which, smirked.

"Oh," the boy said, his voice loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. "You're the one. Mom says you couldn't give her babies, so she had to get them from our daddy."

The chatter around us died instantly. Every eye was on me. I could feel the heat of their pity and judgment. Sarah's face flushed, a flicker of panic in her eyes, but she didn't scold the child. She just put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

Liam just smiled. A slow, triumphant smile.

I felt a wave of nausea. This wasn't a party. It was a public execution of my dignity. And my wife, the woman I had loved and trusted for two decades, was holding the axe.