After the miscarriage, insomnia became my shadow. I watched the sunrise every morning with hollow, burning eyes while my body deteriorated from the inside out.

When my husband took me to a psychiatrist, the doctor diagnosed me with severe depression following pregnancy loss. "What's the treatment plan?" I asked softly. "Family support.

He needs to be present, deeply involved—" Before the doctor could finish, Dean’s phone buzzed on the glass desk. The caller ID popped up with a photo of his young secretary, Ashley.

Dean stood up like a Pavlovian response. "Admit her," he commanded the doctor, his eyes already fixed on the door. "Use your best equipment, your top specialists.

Whatever it takes to fix her mental state." He turned to me, offering a rushed, practiced excuse. "If I hadn't taken time off to bring you here, I wouldn't have left Ashley to handle that meeting alone.

She's trapped out at the golf course in a torrential downpour. I have to go get her." He grabbed his coat. "Stay here and get better.

The second you're cured, I'll bring you home." He vanished down the hallway before I could draw a breath.

He seemed to have forgotten why I fell in the first place—because Ashley had spilled scalding broth right beneath my feet.

And now, because of her, he was handing me over to a psychiatric ward.

In that quiet, terrifying moment, I finally understood: the child I had nearly destroyed myself to conceive meant far less to him than bringing an umbrella to his secretary. ... "Laura," the doctor said after Dean left, his voice filled with gentle sympathy. "Honestly, you don't need to be hospitalized.

I'll write you a prescription to help you sleep.

Once your body recovers, we can discuss resuming IVF treatments." "No need for the prescription," I said, staring at the sterile floor. "And I won't be doing IVF anymore." The doctor blinked, taken aback. "Giving up?

But... you and Mr. Mitchell won't be able to have children naturally." "Then we won't." I didn't tell him the rest. I had options if I truly wanted a child.

Because the infertile one wasn't me—it was Dean, diagnosed with severe oligospermia.

To protect his ego and secure his position as sole heir to Mitchell Corporation, I had guarded his secret with my life.

I had even bribed a fertility specialist during his routine executive checkup to harvest his sample.

After enduring over two hundred agonizing hormone injections, we finally yielded a single, viable embryo. A miracle, the doctor had called it.

And the day after my positive test, that miracle was erased by Ashley. The doctor had warned me that cultivating a second embryo was mathematically nearimpossible.

That baby was almost certainly our only chance. Which meant Dean wasn't just losing a child. He was about to lose his kingdom. The irony was almost poetic.

I had driven myself to the brink of a breakdown worrying about his legacy, while he slept peacefully every night—waking up only to worry about his secretary's comfort.

If he didn't care about the ground crumbling beneath his feet, why should I burn myself alive to keep him warm? The suffocating knot in my chest suddenly snapped.

A strange, cold clarity washed over me. I walked out of the clinic and called my attorney, asking him to draft divorce papers immediately.

When I arrived home, my motherinlaw, Margaret, seized my wrists, her face pale with rage. "Your fatherinlaw is handing thirty percent of the company shares to that bastard son of his!" she hissed. "All because that boy's wife is pregnant with twins!

Give me a straight answer, Laura—when are you and Dean going to get pregnant again?

If you don't produce an heir right now, the Mitchell empire goes to that illegitimate mongrel!" The "bastard" she referred to was Ian Mitchell—Richard's secret son.

I offered a faint, bitter smile. "Mom...

Dean and I can't have children anymore." Before I could mention the divorce, Margaret's expression turned terrifyingly stern. "If you can't carry a child, then someone else will!" I froze, staring at her in disbelief, then let out a soft laugh. "Whatever makes you happy." Margaret’s fury instantly evaporated into a bright, chilling smile. "Laura, I always knew you were a sensible girl!

Once Ashley gives birth, you'll raise the baby as your own.

Consider it a reward for your generosity." It took me several seconds to absorb the words. "Ashley is pregnant." My hands trembled as I pulled up my email inbox.

Days after my miscarriage, Ian had sent me an email with the subject line: "Look at the man you married." At the time, drowning in grief and suspicious of his motives, I hadn't even opened the attachment.

Now, my fingers shook as I clicked it. It was a year's worth of Ashley's corporate expense reports for luxury hotel stays.

Over half the dates overlapped precisely with Dean's business trips.

While I was pumping my body full of hormones and weeping through sleepless nights, Dean was busy building an affair behind my back.

But as the shock settled, a question emerged: Was the baby in Ashley's womb actually Dean's?

The fertility specialists had made it clear—the odds of Dean conceiving naturally were zero. I let out a cold, involuntary laugh.

Margaret misread my reaction, thinking I was masking my heartbreak. She squeezed my hand, offering a soothing, hypocritical tone. "I know it's hard to swallow, sweetheart.

But endure it for Dean's sake. Once he secures the shares and locks in the chairman position, you can punish Ashley however you like.

You know how much I despise mistresses, but desperate times call for desperate measures." Mother and son were truly cut from the same cloth.

Dean used to tell me that the one thing he hated most in this world was unfaithful men, swearing he would never become like his father.

Yet here he was, following in Richard's exact footsteps—using a mistress to manufacture an heir.

And Margaret, who had suffered a lifetime of infidelity, was now asking me to silently suffer the exact same torture.

She might be willing to swallow poison with a smile, but I was done. As soon as she left, I called my lawyer back. "Redraft the agreement.

I want him left with absolutely nothing." Dean walked through the front door an hour later with Ashley trailing right behind him.

She was draped in his tailored suit jacket, her skin glowing—looking remarkably untouched by any rainstorm.

Dean led her toward me, his face a calculated blend of guilt and affection. "Laura, Mom told me you were thrilled about the news and that your depression cleared up instantly.

If I'd known you'd be this understanding, I wouldn't have kept Ashley's pregnancy from you!" There wasn't a shred of genuine remorse in his eyes.

The sight of him made stomach acid rise in my throat, and I choked back a dry heave. "Laura!

If you're feeling unwell, don't force yourself—" I thrust the divorce papers directly into his chest. "Sign this, and I'll be completely cured." He glanced at the title page, his eyes widening in shock. "Divorce?

Absolutely not—" Before he could finish, Ashley let out a soft, delicate sneeze. Dean's brow furrowed instantly.

His tone turned sharp, dripping with impatience. "Laura, Ashley was stuck in the rain because of you today and almost had a panic attack that threatened the baby.

If you have an ounce of decency left, stop throwing tantrums at a critical time like this." When I was lying on the floor bleeding through my white dress, he shielded Ashley, calling it an accident and telling me to be magnanimous.

Now, a single sneeze from Ashley made me look like a monster. Love and hatred were laid bare in an instant.

Yet a foolish, dying spark of curiosity forced me to look into his eyes and ask a humiliating question: "Dean... our baby died. Did you care?

Even a little?" He hesitated for a second, then snapped, "I told you, that was an accident! Why do you keep clinging to the past? We're getting a baby anyway!

And you don't even have to go through the pain of childbirth this time!" Ashley cradled her flat stomach, offering a meek, sugary smile. "Laura, the doctor said your body was just too weak, which is why a minor tumble caused the miscarriage.

Once I give birth, I'll hand the baby right over to you as my apology." Dean didn't object. Instead, he handed me an itinerary. "You and Ashley are flying to France tomorrow.

We'll tell the public you're taking time off abroad to nurture a highrisk pregnancy.

After you care for her through her term and postpartum recovery, we'll register the birth under our names.

My father won't stand a chance with Ian's twins." He was ordering me to serve as his mistress's personal nurse through her pregnancy and confinement.

I stared at the man in front of me, utterly speechless at his audacity. "Are you certain," I asked softly, "that Ashley's child is yours?" "Of course it's mine!

It happened on the very first try—unlike with you," Dean blurted out, dismissive and cruel.

He didn't bother explaining the affair, instead barking an order: "Go to the kitchen and make Ashley some warm ginger tea. She caught a chill today." I didn't move an inch.

He glared at me for a full minute, realizing I had no intention of obeying, before turning and storming into the kitchen himself. I stared at his retreating back.

Years ago, when he was head over heels in love with me, he had sworn that I was the only person he would ever cook for. Even his mother had never tasted a meal made by his hands.

And now, Ashley had broken that rule with a fake sneeze. I pulled out my phone and quietly saved the video recording.

Whether the baby was his or not, the footage I had just captured was more than enough to strip him of his assets in court.

Ashley stepped closer, sliding her prenatal checkup slip onto the table before me. The date stamped on the document was three days "before" my miscarriage.

In an instant, the truth slammed into me: the spilled soup hadn't been an accident. It was a calculated attack.

Before I could speak, Ashley leaned down, whispering in my ear. "You're useless, Laura. You couldn't even protect your own womb.

If you had any dignity left, you'd sign those papers and step aside instead of clinging to a man who doesn't want you." She was waiting for me to snap, waiting for me to raise a hand so she could play the victim.

I forced my knuckles white, staying completely still.

I needed this unborn child intact—it was the ultimate key to making Dean a laughingstock. "I'm not playing your game," I said quietly. "If you convince him to sign, you get what you want.

Otherwise, I won't hesitate to let him know you deliberately murdered my child." Gazing at my phone's recording icon, Ashley showed no panic—only smug arrogance. "You think you can walk away?

This whole 'divorce' act might work on Dean, but it doesn't fool me.

And guess who he believes—you, or me?" Without warning, Ashley threw herself backward onto the hardwood floor, screaming dramatically, "Laura, please!

I begged you not to post my private photos online! Why did you push me?!" Dean burst out of the kitchen at the sound of her shriek.

Ashley scrambled onto her knees before me, weeping hysterically. "Laura, please, I'm begging you..." Dean shoved me aside, scooping Ashley into his arms and frantically inspecting her for injuries.

Then he turned on me, his eyes burning with fury. "Laura Mitchell! Have you completely lost your mind?!

Hand over your phone!" I watched the performance with a terrifying, numb silence. "Believe whatever you want." Recognizing the strange stillness in my tone, Dean softened slightly. "What did you record?" As I pulled out my phone, Ashley broke free from his grip, sobbing violently. "Laura, do you hate my baby so much that you want to kill it?!" Dean lunged, snatching the phone from my hand and slamming it onto the tile floor with all his strength.

The screen shattered into a web of black glass. "Laura!" Dean roared. "This baby is going to call you mother!

How could you be so evil to your own child just because you didn't give birth to it?!" Ashley, unsatisfied, suddenly bolted toward the front door. "If Laura hates this baby so much, I'll go get an abortion right now!" She didn't even make it across the foyer before slipping and falling hard near the threshold.

Only then did I notice a subtle slick of oil smeared across the doorway floor.

Ashley clutched her stomach, gasping. "Why... why is the floor so slippery?!" Dean spotted the sheen on the tiles, his head snapping toward me with venomous fury. "Laura!

How could you be so twisted?!

How many times do I have to tell you that Ashley dropped that soup because the bowl was hot?!" Ashley groaned loudly, curling into a ball. "My stomach... it hurts so bad..." Panicked, Dean lifted her in his arms and sprinted out the door.

Before slamming it shut, he threw an icy look back at me. "You better pray Ashley and the baby are fine.

Because if anything happens to them, I will make you pay." I stood alone in the quiet hallway.

Looking down at the shattered fragments of my phone, a sudden, wild laughter bubbled up from my chest. He was right about one thing: my baby was gone.

And I wasn't going to let either of them off the hook. I took the smashed phone to a specialized repair shop.

Luckily, the internal memory was intact, and every frame of video was recovered. My lawyer, Mr.

Scott, reviewed the footage and nodded grimly. "This is more than enough to secure a complete asset forfeiture against Dean.

We can also file criminal charges against Ashley for assault and battery." "Proceed with everything, Mr. Scott," I said. My phone buzzed.

It was a message from Ian Mitchell: "Are you really going to spend the rest of your life suffering under a fraud?" I frowned, typing back: "Aren't you the one born out of wedlock?" Ian called me immediately. "Let me tell you the real story." Years ago, Ian’s mother, Helena, was Richard Mitchell's lawful first wife.

She had poured her entire inheritance into funding Richard’s startup.

But once he achieved massive success, Richard orchestrated a fraudulent divorce under the guise of buying taxexempt real estate—only to turn around and marry Margaret, who was already pregnant with Dean.

When Helena discovered the deception and tried to fight for her rights, Margaret publicly branded her a golddigging mistress and ruined her reputation.

The truth was the exact opposite of what Margaret had fed me for years. Sensing my silence, Ian sighed over the line. "You don't have to trust me blindly, Laura.

I just don't want to see another innocent woman destroyed by that family." I ran a background check through a private investigator. Every word Ian spoke was true.

Before I could process it, Dean burst into my apartment and grabbed my wrist, forcibly dragging me toward his car.

He shoved me into a hospital room. "Apologize to Ashley!" "I did nothing wrong," I said coldly. Disgust flickered in his eyes. "You almost killed her child!

Laura, look at what you've become!

How am I supposed to stay married to you?!" When Ashley caused my miscarriage, he hadn't offered a single word of reprimand, let alone demanded an apology.

I looked up at him and smiled softly. "Then don't stay married to me." He stiffened, his face turning rigid. "Your parents' manufacturing company relies entirely on Mitchell Corp as its primary client.

If you divorce me, they go bankrupt overnight." My parents' factory was their life's work.

When Dean was courting me, he had personally awarded my father our largest supply contract. I had thought it was an act of love, a sign that he respected my family.

Now I realized it was just a leash he kept wrapped around my neck. Seeing my silence, his tone softened. He stepped forward, reaching out to touch my hair. I flinched away.

He pulled back his hand without anger, sighing like an indulgent adult. "As long as you cooperate, your parents' factory will keep its contract forever.

Ashley's baby will be legally yours. You get to be a mother without enduring ten grueling months of pregnancy or labor pains.

Tell me, Laura—haven't I been good to you?" "Good to me." I stared into the eyes that had once looked at me with unconditional warmth.

Now, they held only cold calculation and arrogance. He was right about one thing: my parents' livelihood depended on the Mitchell supply chain.

But if the head of Mitchell Corp changed, his threat would instantly evaporate. Under the table, my fingers typed a message to Ian: "I can help you reclaim what's yours.

On one condition." Ian replied instantly: "I'm abroad.

Landing tomorrow—we'll talk then." I locked my phone, met Dean's gaze, and spoke with absolute certainty: "We're getting a divorce." A flicker of confusion and deepseated unease crossed Dean's eyes. "Laura...

I've never wanted to divorce you..." Suddenly, Ashley gasped from the bed, tears streaming down her pale face. "Laura, why won't you just leave us alone?!" Dean glanced down at her phone, his face darkening as he dialed a number. "Send the team up." A bad premonition spiked in my chest.

I turned to leave, but Dean stepped in my way. "Selling Ashley's private photos on the dark web is a felony," he said smoothly. "Because you're my wife, I'll convince Ashley not to press criminal charges.

But your mind is unstable, Laura. You need professional help." Four burly men in scrubs marched into the room. "Mrs. Mitchell, please come with us quietly," one said.

I thrashed wildly, but Dean stood by with cold detachment. "You know you're sick, Laura. Don't make this harder than it needs to be. I spoke with the clinic director.

Cooperate with the treatment, and you'll be home soon." The men pinned my arms behind my back. Dean reached into my bag and confiscated my phone.

As they dragged me out, Ashley silently mouthed three words to me from the bed: "You lost." At the private psychiatric facility, two nurses pinned me down and forced a bitter liquid down my throat.

Within minutes, my limbs grew heavy and numb. They strapped my wrists and ankles to a metal chair.

As the heavy electrical treatment began, sensory overload tore through my nerves, and the world faded to black.