Chapter 4

Ever since Vanessa Larson moved into the villa like she had every right to be there.

Les Stephens and she grew more and more intimate.

The only thing they didn't do was sleep in the same bed.

They ate together, went shopping together, bought maternity and baby products, and even picked out the crib with their own hands.

Vanessa started having morning sickness.

The moment she felt unwell, Les would rush right over to take care of her.

Her belly had barely begun to show when Les lifted her shirt, leaned toward her stomach, and called out, "Baby, I'm your daddy."

And Les didn't try to hide any of it from me.

He probably figured I was too stupid to ever notice.

That day, I heard an unmistakable sound coming from the study.

I furiously pushed the door open, only to find Les holding a picture book, reading a story to Vanessa's belly.

"Cynthia?"

Les looked at me in surprise, then smiled and explained.

"I'm doing some prenatal bonding for our baby."

My hands were shaking. There were surveillance cameras installed in the study.

And I had just seen it on the backend terminal—they had clearly been having sex, just on the other side of that door.

And they were using prenatal bonding as a cover.

Back in my room, I dialed my lawyer's number.

"Is the agreement drafted?"

"Miss Sanchez, the first draft has been sent to your email. The property division follows that notarized agreement, with an added clause for emotional distress compensation."

"Add one more thing."

"Go ahead."

"Concealing a pregnancy during the marriage and falsifying medical documents—I've already gathered all the evidence."

"I'll list the charges for you. See if it's enough to file a criminal case."

The lawyer paused for two seconds. "Miss Sanchez, this is enough."

"But if you go the criminal route, there'll be no room left for anything between you and him."

"I don't want any room."

Over the next few days, no matter how far Les went, I kept turning a blind eye.

The way Vanessa looked at me grew more and more smug.

Then, one day, she deliberately provoked me by slapping me across the face.

Then she pretended to fall down the stairs, clutching her stomach and crying that I had pushed her.

Les turned cold toward me on the spot.

"Cynthia Sanchez!"

"Can you stop making trouble? That's your child."

"There was only one frozen embryo. If anything happens to Vanessa, you'll never get to be a mother again!"

He ignored the slap mark on my face and rushed Vanessa to the hospital in a frantic hurry.

On the way, Vanessa asked him anxiously.

"You just carried me out like that—aren't you afraid your wife will be angry?"

Les chuckled softly.

"She won't be angry."

"If Cynthia didn't love me to death, why would she have spent these seven years desperate to give me a baby, like a sow popping out litters?"

"She loves me that much. A little coaxing later and she'll be fine."

It wasn't until two hours later.

Once Les had cooled off, he finally sent a text to smooth things over.

"Thankfully the doctor says Vanessa's baby is fine. Cynthia, I hope today doesn't happen again."

He thought I'd be like every other time—a little coaxing, a way to save face, and we'd be back to normal.

But this time, I went straight to the airport with my suitcase in hand.

Before I left, I sent Les a message.

Eight o'clock tonight. Come to the coffee shop.

I have a surprise for you.