Chapter 2

The first thing I did after the housekeeper helped me clean and bandage the cut on my head was walk into Gavyn' s home office. I sat down in his expensive leather chair, the one I was never supposed to use, and turned on his computer.

His desktop background was a photo of the four of us at the beach last summer. The kids were laughing, Gavyn had his arm around me, and I was looking at him with such open, foolish love. My finger traced my own smiling face on the screen. A stranger. A clown.

I opened a blank document and started typing out the divorce agreement. My hands were steady. The pain in my head was a dull throb, a faint echo of the agony in my soul.

As I typed, memories flooded in. Kennith as a baby, small and fragile, clutching my finger with his whole hand. Kaelynn, a year old, burying her face in my neck and calling me "Mama" for the first time. The memory was so clear it hurt.

I remembered Gavyn' s gentle persuasion to try IVF after we' d been married a year. "I want a family with you so badly, Alex," he' d whispered, his voice thick with what I thought was love. "Let's not wait any longer."

I remembered the injections, the clinic visits, the morning sickness that lasted for months. I remembered the sheer, overwhelming effort of raising twins, pouring every bit of myself into them, sacrificing my own dreams to become the perfect wife and mother he wanted.

And the kids... they had loved me. I wasn't imagining it. "You're the best mommy in the whole world," Kennith used to say, his crayon drawings of our "happy family" taped all over the fridge. "I love you more than cookies," Kaelynn would whisper during our bedtime cuddles.

It all started to change about a year ago, when they started taking French lessons. Their new tutor was a recommendation from one of Gavyn' s colleagues, he' d said. A brilliant, cultured woman.

Iliana.

Now I understood. The slow poisoning of their minds had begun then. The subtle comparisons, the casual mentions of how "Aunty Iliana" was so much more sophisticated, so much smarter.

A thought struck me. I opened a web browser and typed Gavyn' s name. I knew about his public social media, but I had a hunch. I added "private" and "blog" to the search terms. It took some digging, but I found it. A locked account under a pseudonym. The password was a date. The day Iliana had left him.

I opened it, and my stomach turned. It was a shrine. Years of posts, photos, and unsent letters, all dedicated to her. "My Iliana," he called her. "The only one."

He' d documented her entire life from afar. Her studies in Paris, her art shows, her travels. And then, her return.

There was a post from a year ago. "She's back. I've found a way to bring her close. The children need to know their real mother."

He had hired her as their French tutor. He had been bringing her into our home, into our lives, for a year. He had been orchestrating this reunion, this replacement, right under my nose.

I scrolled through photos of a welcome-home party he' d thrown for her. It was lavish, extravagant, held at a private club. He was looking at her the way I had always dreamed he would look at me. His hand was on the small of her back. They looked like a couple. The rightful couple.

And I saw the children in the photos, looking up at Iliana with adoration. He was teaching them to love her, to see her as their mother, while simultaneously teaching them to look down on me. Posts detailed his "lessons" with them. "Today I told them about Iliana's artistic talent. Alex can barely draw a stick figure. It' s important they understand their genetic gifts."

The pieces all clicked into place, forming a picture of betrayal so vast and meticulously planned that it stole my breath. I felt like an idiot, a blind, trusting fool.

I finished the divorce agreement, my fingers flying across the keys. I didn' t ask for much. Just a clean break. And one other thing.

I printed the document and was about to close the browser when I heard the front door open. Gavyn and the kids were back.

I quickly shut down the computer and stood up, the printed papers clutched in my hand.

The kids ran into the room, their faces sticky with ice cream.

"Mommy, we're sorry we pushed you," Kaelynn said, her voice sweet as syrup. It was the same tone she used when she wanted something.

"It was an accident," Kennith added, not looking at me.

I looked at their faces, these children I had loved more than my own life, and felt nothing. The well of my affection had run dry, leaving only a barren wasteland.

"Okay," I said, my voice flat.

They looked surprised by my lack of response. Gavyn came in, his expression a mask of concern. "Alex, are you alright? I was so worried."

He reached out to touch my arm. I flinched back as if from a fire. "Don't touch me."

The disgust was so visceral, so sudden, that I gagged. I clapped a hand over my mouth, a wave of nausea washing over me.

Gavyn' s eyes widened, then narrowed. A flicker of something ugly crossed his face. "Are you...? Alex, are you pregnant?"

The question hung in the air, absurd and horrifying.

Before I could answer, his expression hardened into accusation. "You did this on purpose, didn't you? After seeing Iliana, you thought you could trap me with another baby."

"What are you talking about?" I whispered, horrified.

He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my skin. "We're going to find out right now." He started dragging me towards the master bathroom. "There's a test in the cabinet."

I struggled against him, my bare feet slipping on the polished hardwood. "Let go of me, Gavyn!"

In the struggle, my leg caught the edge of a large ceramic vase on a pedestal. It crashed to the floor, shattering into a hundred pieces. A sharp shard sliced deep into my calf. Pain, sharp and immediate, shot up my leg.

Gavyn stopped, looking down at the blood pooling around my foot. He didn't let go of my arm. He just stared, his face impassive.

My mind flashed back to two years ago. An accidental pregnancy. A miscarriage at ten weeks. I had been devastated. Gavyn had held me, his voice gentle and soothing. "It's okay, darling. We have our beautiful twins. We have each other."

Another lie. He must have been relieved. Another child would have been another complication, another tie to the "placeholder." His gentle comfort was a performance.

He yanked my arm again, pulling me over the broken ceramic. "The test, Alex. Now."

He forced me into the bathroom and thrust a pregnancy test into my hand.

I looked at the small plastic stick, then at his cold, furious face. For six years, I had thought he was my savior. Now I saw him for what he was: my captor.

I took the test, my hands trembling with a mixture of pain, rage, and fear. He stood over me, watching, waiting.

The five longest minutes of my life ticked by.

Finally, the result window began to change.