When the Paternity Test Dropped, I Put My Ex-Husband and His Mistress’s Bed Photos on the Company’s Big Screen

Chapter 1

I went in for my prenatal appointment, he said he had to entertain an important client.
At St. Mary’s Hospital, I caught him red-handed and asked, “Your client’s pregnant too?”

I held my ultrasound printout and let out a cold little laugh, what a coincidence, your son is sitting right in my belly.

Later, I took over the company.
I set the bed photos of my ex-husband and his mistress as the office screensaver, clients joked the “ad” had more punch than our proposal.

At least he finally contributed something.

That day, I’d gone in for my checkup.

Ethan Hart told me over the phone there was a key client he needed to host in person, he said he really couldn’t get away.

But right outside the OB-GYN exam room, I saw him, steadying Vivian Clarke like she might tip over if he let go.

He listened to every word the doctor said, nodding now and then, calm and patient.
It was a version of him I hadn’t seen in years.

In an instant, everything in me tightened.
The appointment slip in my hand crumpled so hard it almost tore.

My feet felt nailed to the floor, heavy, useless.

The pregnant woman in that exam room was Vivian Clarke.

I still remembered the look in Ethan’s eyes whenever he mentioned her, that bright, pleased kind of admiration.

“That girl’s got real skills,” he’d said once. “Deals that wouldn’t budge, she just acted sweet and suddenly they were done.”

Another time he’d said, “That skincare set you bought, didn’t you get two, give her one when you get the chance.”

Like he’d forgotten the “girl” he was talking about was a year older than me.
Like he’d forgotten I’d stood in line for four hours on launch day just to get that set.

When Ethan came out, his eyes were still on Vivian.
He didn’t notice me at all.

The triage nurse called my number three times before I finally snapped back.

“That husband earlier was so attentive,” the nurse said. “He asked about every little precaution.”

“Oh, them,” the doctor added with a sigh, sounding almost envious. “He comes to every appointment with her. You don’t see many husbands with that kind of patience anymore.”

Every appointment?

I stared at the report in my hands, squeezing it, smoothing it, squeezing it again, until the doctor took it to look.

“Next time, bring your husband,” she said. “You have gestational hypertension. It’s risky to come alone.”

I walked out with the prescription bag in my hand, barely feeling my steps.

My phone still showed his last text.
[Tonight I might be home late. I have to stay with a client.]

I turned it over in my head, again and again, then clenched my teeth and ran outside.

Ethan dipped his head, one hand braced above the car door, opening the front passenger seat for Vivian like she was something precious.

He could be so gentle, just not with me.

Two pregnant women, looking at each other.

Vivian took the tissue Ethan handed her and dabbed at her sweat.
Then she turned and said something to him.

He shifted, finally seeing me, his eyes flicking over my face like he was sizing up a problem.

Heat rolled in waves off the summer traffic.

Inside the car, it looked cool.
And I was the one standing outside, feeling every second of my own humiliation.

My loose maternity dress was soaked from running, sticking to my skin.
My bangs were wet and messy, plastered to my forehead.

After about ten seconds, Ethan opened the door and stepped out.

He walked up to me, lit a cigarette, and frowned slightly.

“Here for a checkup today?” he asked.

He tapped ash off the tip. “Why didn’t you mention it when you called?”

The passenger door was still wide open behind him.

I pointed toward the back seat. “Didn’t you say you had an important client to keep company?”

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