A year after she stole my husband, my former best friend mailed me an invitation to her baby shower. “Come celebrate our little miracle,” she wrote,
Everyone called it fate.
I reread the lab report even though I already knew every word by memory. Daniel Mercer: congenital azoospermia. Sterile since birth. Not reduced fertility. Not damaged fertility. Impossible fertility.
Stapled behind it sat the second report.
Alistair Mercer: 99.99% probability of paternity.
Daniel’s younger brother.
A quiet laugh slipped out of me, barely louder than the rain outside.
For an entire year, Camille had flaunted her victory online. Her hand resting possessively on Daniel’s chest. Her diamond ring sparkling above my old dining table. Her captions dripping with smug cruelty: Some women lose because they were never meant to keep what they had.
She wanted an audience for my humiliation.
Fine.
I picked up my phone and called my lawyer.
“Naomi?” Evelyn answered immediately. “Tell me you’re not staring at that invitation alone.”
“I’m staring at evidence,” I replied calmly.
A brief pause followed. Then her tone sharpened. “Good.”
“I need certified copies of everything. Fertility records, paternity reports, the financial audit.”
“They’re already prepared.”
“And the house?”
“Still protected by your settlement clause. If Daniel committed fraud during the divorce, we can reopen the case.”
I looked down at the baby shower invitation and smiled faintly.
Camille thought I was the devastated barren ex-wife crawling back to watch her stolen fairytale blossom.
What she forgot was this:
Before Daniel married me, before Camille learned how expensive betrayal could become, I built the legal firm responsible for Mercer Holdings’ contracts.
I knew exactly where every body was buried.
And now, one of them was growing inside Camille’s stomach.
“I’ll be there,” I whispered softly.
Then I ordered the gift….
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