“You’re playing a dangerous game, Lauren.”
“I’m not playing,” I said, my voice dropping to a whisper. “I’m ending it.”
The next twenty-four hours were a blur of adrenaline and nausea. The twin pregnancy was making itself known, twisting my stomach into knots, but I refused to let it slow me down. I met with Evelyn in her high-rise office downtown. She slid a manila envelope across the mahogany table.
“You were right,” Evelyn said, a fierce, respectful grin on her face. “Peyton isn’t pregnant. But she did visit a clinic last week. An aesthetics clinic. She had a minor surgical procedure to implant a saline bump to mimic early pregnancy bloating. She’s been buying fake ultrasounds off a novelty website.”
I opened the envelope. Inside were the receipts. The emails. The undeniable proof of a woman so desperate for wealth she was willing to fabricate a human life.
At six-thirty the next evening, I stood before the towering wrought-iron gates of the Vance estate in Scottsdale. I wore a sleek, tailored black dress—the kind of dress you wear to a funeral. My hair was pulled back perfectly. I looked nothing like the weeping, discarded wife they expected.
I pushed the heavy oak front door open. The foyer smelled of expensive lilies and roasted duck. The sound of clinking crystal and hushed, gossiping laughter drifted from the formal dining room.
I walked down the long hallway, my heels clicking rhythmically against the marble floor.
As I stepped into the archway of the dining room, the laughter died instantly.
Twenty of David’s closest family members sat around the long mahogany table. At the head of the table sat Eleanor, draped in pearls, her face freezing into a mask of outrage. To her right sat David, looking haggard, his eyes bloodshot and dark circles bruising his skin.
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