“Yeah, great, whatever,” Ethan muttered, waving his hand as if swatting away a fly. “Look, Clara, let’s cut to the chase. I’m filing for divorce.”
He pointed to the papers. “I’m with Isabella now. It’s serious. She has resources, Clara. Real resources. She can give a child a future—private schools, travel, connections. You… you have nothing.”
He walked over to the bassinets and looked down. For the first time, a flicker of interest crossed his face, but it was focused entirely on the blue blanket.
“I’ll take the boy,” he said.
I froze. “Excuse me?”
“Leo,” he clarified. “I’ll take Leo. He’s the heir. He carries the name. Isabella agrees—a boy is manageable. We can mold him.”
He looked at the pink bassinets with disdain. “You can keep the girl. Raising two is too much work, especially for a single mom with no income. And frankly, Clara, you’re completely useless. You have no job, no ambition. At least I can save one of them from a life of mediocrity.”
My blood ran cold. It felt like the temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.
“You want to split the twins?” I asked, my voice deadly quiet. “Because your mistress only wants a male accessory? Because she doesn’t want the work of a daughter?”
“I want my son,” Ethan sneered. “And since I own the house—well, since we own the house—I have the stability. The judge will give him to me. You’ll be living in a studio apartment eating ramen. I’ll have the Manor.”
I gently placed Leo back in his bassinet. I picked up the divorce papers. I flipped through them. He had already signed them. He was ceding all custody of “Female Child” to me and demanding full custody of “Male Child.”
It was monstrous. It was bureaucratic evil.
I looked up at him. I didn’t cry. I didn’t beg.
I smiled.
It wasn’t a nice smile. It was the smile of a predator that has just realized the trap has been sprung.
“You think you own the house, Ethan?” I asked softly.
“Isabella bought it cash yesterday. It’s done,” he bragged. “She paid off the bank. The deed is in the safe. Sign the papers, Clara. Don’t make this ugly. You can’t win against money.”
“Get out,” I said.
“What?”
“Get out of my room. Get out of my sight. Before I call security.”
Ethan laughed. “Fine. Enjoy your last few days of playing victim. Once the lawyers get involved, you’ll be lucky if you get visitation rights for the boy.”
He turned and walked out, whistling a tune.
I waited until the door closed. Then I picked up my phone.
I had one notification from my private investigator, Mr. Vance. I had hired him three months ago when Ethan started coming home late smelling of lilies.
The subject line read: Subject: Isabella Rossi (aka The Heiress).
I opened the file.
The first page wasn’t a bank statement. It was a mugshot. Three of them, actually. From Florida, Texas, and Nevada.
Charges: Wire Fraud, Identity Theft, Grand Larceny, Impersonating an Officer.
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