It took seven years of marriage for me to find out the truth. The girl I carried for ten months, gave birth to, and raised with my own hands for six years was never mine. My husband had used my body as a surrogate for his mistress!

Today, my daughter won an award for an essay called “My Most Loved Mom.” At the parent meeting, the teacher invited me onstage to read it out loud.

But the mom she wrote about who loves dyeing her hair, loves wearing high heels, has a heart-shaped face, and always smells good? That woman wasn’t me.

The other parents started questioning. I practically ran out of the school. Halfway home, a doctor told me: my daughter has zero blood relation to me.

I took hormone shot after hormone shot and choked down bitter meds to carry and give birth to my daughter! How on earth could she not be mine?!

I couldn’t fucking believe it, so I went to confront my husband. I caught him holding my daughter’s hand, taking her into his mistress’s filming set.

I heard it myself. How they laughed about tricking me for seven years. How they used me to give birth, raise the kid, pay the bills, waste my time, my body, my money, my life.

It felt like knives tearing through my chest. I couldn’t breathe. But even then, I told myself, ‘Fine, my husband is a heartless piece of shit. The kid, though? I raised her for six years. She has to love me, at least a little.’

But the next second, I watched as she threw her arms around that woman and smiled so sweetly. She said she liked the pretty mommy. She didn’t like me, the ugly, worn-out woman.

That night, my husband slid a document across the table. A divorce agreement dressed up like some bullshit business contract.

He planned to take the mansion, the company, even the gifts I got during our wedding and still expected me to keep slaving away, raising a child for him and his mistress like some obedient idiot!

And just like he wanted, I signed it without asking a single question.

What that asshole didn’t know was that I had already changed the terms.

He was going to walk away getting not a damn thing.

My husband doesn’t love me. My daughter doesn’t want me. Fuck it, I don’t want them either.

I picked up the phone and called overseas.

“Dad,” I said, “I’m getting divorced. I’ll come home. I’ll inherit the family estate. And I’ll find a man who marries into the family.”

1

Mariah’s POV

On the day of my daughter’s parent-teacher conference, my life completely turned over.

It should have been a happy day. Cruella had won first place in a citywide writing competition with an essay about gratitude toward her mother. As her parent, I was invited to represent the families and go onstage to share my “parenting experience.”

When I stepped up to the podium, I was still smiling.

But that smile froze the moment I read the first line aloud.

“My mom loves dyeing her hair in all kinds of colors. Not long ago, she dyed it brunette again.”

Instinctively, I reached up and touched my hair.

Black. I had never dyed it. I tried to calm myself. Maybe children exaggerate.

But then came the second sentence.

“My mom loves wearing high heels. She looks especially beautiful when she walks.”

I don’t own a single pair of high heels. I gave them up completely after getting pregnant.

A sense of unease crept in, but I forced myself to continue.

“My mom isn’t very tall. She has a heart-shaped face and doe eyes.”

My throat tightened. I couldn’t go on.

I’m 5’7”, broad-shouldered, with a round face.

Nothing in her description matched me.

A parent suddenly spoke up from the audience.

“Teacher, may I ask, how authentic is this essay? If it doesn’t match reality, is it really appropriate for it to win first place?”

In that instant, it felt as though someone had slapped me across the face in public.

I barely held myself together, made an excuse about feeling unwell, and left early.

The moment I sat in my car, I realized my hands were shaking.

A strange, nameless panic rose in my chest.

Before I could sort through my thoughts, a notification popped up on my phone. It was our family’s medical checkup report from the hospital.

When my eyes landed on the final line, my entire body went rigid.

[Child’s blood type: A]

I checked it again. And again. Three times in total.

My husband, Viggo, and I—one of us is AB, the other B.

No matter how you calculate it, we could never have an A-type child!

My first reaction was that the system must be wrong, so I immediately called the doctor.

After listening, he asked carefully, “Has your daughter’s father always handled her medical checkups?”

“Yeah,” I replied.

There was a brief pause. When the doctor spoke again, his tone was cautious and deliberate.

“There is only one explanation.”

“Either the child was switched at birth… or you are not her biological mother.”

I heard the last sentence. But I couldn’t understand it.

I carried Cruella for ten months. I endured countless shots to protect my pregnancy. I even vomited blood from severe reactions. How could she not be my child?!

I hung up and, almost on instinct, slammed my foot on the gas and drove home.

I needed an explanation from Viggo!

What the fuck is actually going on?!

But as soon as I reached the hallway, I saw him holding Cruella’s hand, about to head out.

I heard my daughter say excitedly, “Yay! Finally, Daddy, we get to watch Mommy act again! I’m so happy!”

Viggo reminded her gently, “Be good, okay? When we get to the set, don’t cause trouble for Mommy.”

A set? Acting?

A sharp pain spread through my chest. My first thought was he’s cheating.

But what the hell did an affair have to do with Cruella not being my biological child?

She came out of my body!

I needed answers, so I secretly followed them.

The car drove toward a film set on the outskirts of the city.

Viggo led Cruella straight inside.

I called my assistant, and ten minutes later, I walked into the set as well.

Then, I watched with my own eyes as Cruella let go of Viggo’s hand and ran happily toward a woman.

“Mommy!”

The woman crouched and scooped her up with practiced ease, her voice soft and familiar.

“Why are you running so fast? What if you fall?”

The moment I saw her face, I stopped breathing.

Carmilla.

My former college roommate, the one I had fallen out with completely.

Viggo walked over, naturally wrapping an arm around her shoulders, then leaned down and kissed her cheek.

“I’m late. Did you wait long?”

Carmilla smiled and kissed him back, her tone intimate. “The last scene just wrapped. Perfect timing. Didn’t you say you booked a hotel?”

“Mm,” he replied. “It’s our tenth anniversary. We can’t be careless.”

Tenth… anniversary?

I stood in the shadows, my entire body turning numb.

Seven years. That’s how long I had been married to him. Nine years. That’s how long I’d even known him!

Yet, they didn’t hide their affair, speaking without avoiding Cruella or anyone else.

Everyone around them acted like this was old news.

Carmilla pouted playfully. “When are you planning to divorce that woman? I’m established now. We can finally be together openly. We can make it official.”

Viggo replied softly, “Not yet. Her father’s money hasn’t fully come through.”

Carmilla frowned. “Seven years of marriage and you still haven’t squeezed all the value out of her?”

He chuckled. “Jealous now? Wasn’t marrying her your idea? You said she had a strong build, good for having kids. You wanted her to carry the baby so you could focus on your career without worries, right?”

Carmilla snorted lightly, her eyes smug. “Well, Cruella’s already grown. I hate hiding like this. I don’t want paparazzi calling me a mistress someday, when I knew you first.”

Viggo nodded, his tone soothing. “Don’t worry. I’ve always been careful with her. She’ll never get pregnant with my child.”

“Cruella will be our only child. I’ll handle the divorce cleanly and then marry you.”

My mind exploded with a loud buzz.

All those years, Viggo had claimed he had weak fertility. He begged me again and again to do IVF. He even knelt and swore he would love me for life. I softened. I agreed.

For an entire year, I endured injections, hormone treatments, and pregnancy preservation. God, I nearly died on the operating table!

All along, it was never about wanting a child, huh?

It was about getting a child without Carmilla paying any price!

They had secretly switched the embryos!

I had unknowingly become their surrogate!

Before I could process this absurd truth, Cruella suddenly hugged Carmilla’s leg and looked up at her.

“Mommy! I like you so much!”

“I hate the mommy at home!”

“She’s not pretty, she’s always strict, and she forces me to learn so many things I don’t even like!”

At that moment, my heart went completely empty.

I watched the husband who had always acted like an emotionally clueless “straight man” fuss tenderly over Carmilla.

I watched the girl I had raised for six years, who had never once said “Mom, I love you,” cling to another woman and pour out her affection.

I left the set like a walking corpse. Then I called my dad, with whom I had cut ties years ago just to marry Viggo.

My voice, however, came out unexpectedly calm.

“Dad.”

“I’ve thought it through.”

“I want a divorce. This family… I don’t want it anymore.”

Mariah’s POV

“Are you sure?”

Dad’s voice was low on the line.

“This isn’t just a spur-of-the-moment decision?”

I leaned back against the rear seat of the car and closed my eyes for a second.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’ve thought it through, Dad.”

He paused, then said, “Alright. If you’ve made up your mind, come back.”

“I’ll get you a lawyer. From here on, everything goes by your call.”

“But there’s one thing you need to understand.”

“If you come back to run the company, you can’t just come and go like before.”

“From now on, any man you bring in has to be a husband. Marriage, assets, kids? Everything has to be in your name.”

He stopped for a beat.

“That’s the Victorians rule.”

“I know,” I replied without hesitation. “I agree.”

A soft sigh came through the phone.

“Seven days then,” he said. “You need to report to the company in seven days.”

“Alright.”

Shortly after, the car pulled up in front of the law firm.

I didn’t hesitate. I went straight inside, explained my intention, and asked for a divorce agreement to be drafted.

The receptionist lawyer hesitated, her expression turning awkward.

“Ma’am… there’s already a divorce agreement under your name,” she said. “It hasn’t been signed yet.”

My heart skipped.

“Who filed it?” I asked.

“Sir Viggo Roosevelt.”

For a moment, I thought I’d misheard, so I asked to see the document.

After verifying my identity, the lawyer handed it to me.

I flipped through it page by page. With every line, my heart grew colder.

The agreement spelled everything out clearly. How Viggo would “use” my premarital assets free of charge. How the company we built after marriage would be transferred entirely into his personal name. How he even accused me of “marital infidelity” to claim a larger share of the assets.

In the end, I would walk away with nothing.

Not even the company we had built together. He didn’t plan to leave me even a single damn cent!

I couldn’t help but laugh.

“So that’s how it is.”

I pushed the agreement back across the table, my tone so calm that even the lawyer froze for a second.

“Have my lawyer revise it,” I said. “When it’s done, give it back to Viggo.”

He wants me penniless?

Oh, Viggo, if you don’t end up exactly the way you were before marrying me, with nothing to your name, then I don’t deserve the Victorian family name.

By the time I got home, it was already late.

Cruella was sitting in the living room playing with her toys. The moment she saw me, her face darkened.

“Bad woman! Why are you home so late?”

She frowned, her voice sharp. “Were you out fooling around again?”

I stopped in my tracks. “Cruella—”

“You’re so shameless!” She raised her voice. “Other kids’ moms are already home by now. You’re the only one who isn’t!”

Viggo stood up from the couch, his tone displeased.

“Look at yourself,” he said. “You’re a mother. Do you think this is appropriate?”

“Coming home this late every day. What kind of example are you setting for her?”

I stood in the entryway, my hands slowly curling into fists.

I had heard this lecture for seven years.

Whenever I worked late, he’d tell our daughter that women who come home late are restless and improper.

If I woke up late and didn’t make breakfast, he’d say a good mother would never let her child go hungry.

Under this constant emotional pressure, I’d been forced to give up parts of the company, rush home early, juggle being a stay-at-home mom while still trying to build a career.

And yet, nobody ever noticed what I gave. All I got in return was fucking blame!

“There was something going on at the company,” I said, swallowing my emotions out of habit.

“Cruella, go to bed early. You have art class tomorrow.”

The words had barely left my mouth when she suddenly screamed.

“I don’t want to go!”

That brat grabbed a cup from the table and hurled it at me.

I didn’t have time to dodge. The cup shattered against my forehead. A sharp ringing filled my ears. I staggered, reached up, and my hand came away covered in blood.

“I don’t want to learn painting!” She cried hysterically. “I hate it! Why are you forcing me? You’re a bad mommy!”

Viggo rushed over immediately and pulled her into his arms.

“Alright, alright. Baby, don’t cry,” he soothed softly.

Then he frowned at me. “What’s wrong with you, honey? Why are you putting so much pressure on the child?”

“She’s only six.”

“Isn’t it better for her to grow up happy?”

As I stood where I was, a chill crept up from my feet.

Back then, it was Cruella who loved painting. She begged me for it again and again.

I was the one who thought she was too young and wanted to wait.

It was Viggo who said I was selfish. Who said I wasn’t thinking about her future. Who said it would make her fall behind at the starting line.

And now, somehow, it was all my fault.

I wiped the blood from my face, my voice turning cold.

“Cruella. Apologize to me.”

The living room went silent.

“You dared to hit your mother today,” I said, staring at her. “Tomorrow, will you dare to hit other kids at kindergarten?”

“I will not accept raising a criminal.”

I had never spoken so harshly to her before.

She froze then burst into loud sobs.

“Bad mom! Bad mom! Bad mom! I don’t want to talk to you anymore!”

“Why should I apologize to a bad mom?”

Viggo’s expression darkened completely.

“Mariah! When did you become this petty?”

“It’s just a little scratch. Is it really worth getting angry at a child over? Right now, you don’t look like a mother at all!”

I suddenly laughed.

“What does a mother ‘look like’?”

Is this the fucking face I make after giving birth, no milk, forced to drink that nasty-ass medicine?

Or when she stumbled learning to walk, I had to fucking kneel on the floor, teaching her step by step like some damn servant until she could walk?

The more I remembered all the shit I went through before, the colder I felt. I used to endure it all for the “love” of this damn family. Even if it was bitter, I swallowed it like it was sweet, thinking we were all on the same page.

But now, I know—the only ones on the same damn page are them, not me.

I endure, I retreat, I play nice, and this fucking family doesn’t change a bit.

They just take it all for granted!

“You’re still being stubborn!” Viggo said coldly. “Apologize to Cruella. Or I’ll take her to my parents’ place for a while.”

Once upon a time, that sentence used to terrify me the most.

Fear of shit from my mother-in-law, fear of being shot down by my father-in-law, fear that Viggo’s family would hate me.

But now? Not a damn bit of fear left.

I spoke softly.

“Cruella, if you don’t want to learn, then you won’t. I’ll cancel the tutoring classes.”

“If private school doesn’t suit you, I’ll transfer you to public school.”

“From now on, I won’t interfere in your life anymore.”

Viggo froze.

Before he could say anything, Cruella cheered.

“That’s what a good mom is like!”

I didn’t respond. I just turned around and went back to the bedroom to bandage my wound.

Soon, the door opened.

Viggo walked in, his tone gentler.

“Honey, did something happen to you today?”

He reached out, trying to help me apply some ointment.

“Why did you suddenly cut off Cruella’s classes?”

I raised my hand and pushed him away, my voice flat and cold.

“Isn’t this what you and Cruella wanted? I’m just letting her grow up happy.”

Mariah’s POV

My words caught Viggo off guard.

He clearly hadn’t expected that response. His expression froze for a couple of seconds before his brows knit together again, his tone slipping back into that familiar “I’m doing this for your own good” voice.

“You can’t put it that way,” he said.

“The tutoring can slow down, sure. But how can you just cut everything off completely? Do you know how hard it was to get Cruella into that private school? You spent so much effort back then. Have you really forgotten?”

I didn’t respond. I just lowered my head and kept tending to the wound.

Standing beside me, Viggo watched my indifference. A flicker of irritation flashed in his eyes, quickly smothered.

“If you don’t agree,” I said flatly, “then you can explain it to your daughter yourself.”

“This was a decision you and she made together.”

He clearly froze.

He had never seen me this cold before.

In the past, no matter what he said, I’d instinctively smoothed things over for him, cleaned up his messes, never once pushed responsibility back onto him.

The displeasure crossed his face again, gone just as quickly.

As if remembering something, he suddenly reached into his briefcase, pulled out a document, and handed it to me.

“Alright, let’s drop the Cruella issue for now.”

“Oh, right. Sign this.”

He spoke casually. “A deal I just closed today. The process is a bit rushed.”

Cruella’s issue wasn’t urgent. He didn’t really believe I’d stop caring about her anyway. He just assumed I was saying things out of anger.

This so-called deal, on the other hand, mattered.

If this were before, I wouldn’t even have opened the contract.

I never interfered in his career. I just signed, transferred money, and took responsibility when things went wrong.

This time, I didn’t bother reading it either.

Because I already knew that this wasn’t a goddamn business contract at all.

It was a fucking divorce agreement dressed up as one.

Judging by his reaction, he probably hadn’t realized yet that the contents of that agreement had already been revised.

When he saw me sign, his shoulders visibly relaxed. His voice softened immediately, compliments spilling out.

“If this goes through, we’ll make a lot of money.”

“Honey, when it’s done, I’ll make it up to you. A proper wedding this time—big, formal, invite everyone.”

“You’ve always regretted not having one, haven’t you? I’ll make it up to you.”

Seven years ago, when we got married, he had nothing.

No wedding. No rings. Our parents hadn’t even formally met.

Over the years, every time he needed my support, he dangled the word wedding in front of me like bait.

And damn, I always believed him.

Even now, knowing he was divorcing me for Carmilla, when he used that familiar, practiced tactic, my chest still ached.

I blinked, forcing the bitterness down. As I handed the document back, I couldn’t stop myself from adding, “If… we got divorced—”

I didn’t even finish before he cut me off, righteous and firm.

“How could we get divorced?”

His tone was absolute. “This family can’t function without you. Neither I nor our daughter can live without you.”

“You’re the backbone of this household. Don’t overthink things.”

He sounded so certain.

Yet his words and his actions couldn’t have been more opposite.

Before I could speak again, I noticed the smile he couldn’t quite suppress.

He thought he could trick me into signing the divorce papers and leaving me with nothing.

But soon, he'll understand what it feels like to lose everything.

As if realizing something, he coughed and forced himself back into composure.

“Alright. Get some rest. I’m going to step out and make a call.”

And with that, he hurried out of the room.

He even forgot to finish applying the meds.

I bit down on self-mockery.

Not long after, my phone vibrated.

It was a message from the lawyer.

[Ma’am, the divorce agreement has officially entered the process.]

I stared at that line for a long time.

And then I laughed.

I laughed and laughed until I finally broke, collapsing onto the bed, sobbing uncontrollably.

Nine years of sincerity.

I’ll just consider myself blind, terrible at judging people.

After crying, I calmed down quickly.

Silently, I packed my belongings. I contacted the school, canceled all of Cruella’s tutoring classes, withdrew her enrollment from the private school, transferred her to a public one, and froze her allowance account.

I had never been speaking out of anger.

As for Viggo, he didn’t know yet.

In a few days, the company I brought into the marriage as a wedding gift would return, intact, to my dad’s name.

Including the house we were living in.

Everything I’d bought for this so-called family of three over the years, I sorted through it all. What could be thrown away, I threw the hell away.

When I came back again, the door was shut.

I opened it and saw Carmilla.

She was sitting on the living-room couch, sunglasses and a mask on, her suitcase beside her.

Cruella hovered around her, looking up at her like a little chick, chatting eagerly.

In the kitchen stood Viggo, hands that had never touched housework, wearing an apron, making her a late-night snack.

At the sound of the door, Carmilla removed her sunglasses and mask and smiled at me.

“Mariah! You remember me, right?”

Her tone was casual, as if nothing were wrong.

“We were roommates in college.”

“My hotel in Glendale got exposed by paparazzi. I can’t go back right now.”

“I thought about it, and you and Viggo are the only people I know here.”

She gestured around.

“This neighborhood has good privacy. I’ll just stay for a bit.”

Then, as if remembering something, she added warmly, “We’re old classmates. You won’t mind, right?”

Viggo walked out of the kitchen holding a bowl of soup.

He didn’t even look at me.

“Of course not,” he answered on my behalf. “We’re old classmates. What’s wrong with staying a few days? The house is big.”