“She told his mother she’s pregnant.”
Evelyn’s words crackled through my car’s Bluetooth speaker as I drove away from the clinic. The Arizona sun was blinding, reflecting off the asphalt like a mirror, but inside the cabin of my sedan, the temperature felt like ice.
“Pregnant?” I repeated, my grip tightening on the steering wheel until my knuckles ached. “Peyton?”
“That’s the rumor spreading through David’s family as we speak,” Evelyn said, the clicking of her keyboard audible in the background. “It’s a desperate play, Lauren. She knows the vasectomy timeline just blew up in her face. If you’re pregnant with his legitimate heirs, her grip on his wallet loosens. So, she’s fabricating a miracle of her own to keep him tied down.”
I merged onto the highway, the ultrasound photos resting heavily on the passenger seat. My mind raced, piecing together the architecture of Peyton’s manipulation.
It made sickening sense now. The sudden urgency for David to get a vasectomy three months ago, masked as a “progressive choice” for our future. The subtle, planted seeds of doubt about my late hours at the marketing firm. She hadn’t just stolen my husband; she had engineered a psychological demolition. She wanted to ensure that when I inevitably got pregnant—because we had been actively trying before the surgery—David would instantly believe it wasn’t his.
She just hadn’t accounted for biology taking its course a month before the surgeon’s scalpel.
“What about the accounts, Evelyn?” I asked, forcing my voice to remain steady.
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