Mom's knock echoed down the line of stalls. She was full-on panicking, banging on each door like I'd vanished.

"I'm here."

I wiped my face and stepped out, eyes puffy.

She froze, then cupped my cheeks. "What happened? Who upset my baby? Why are you crying? Talk to me."

Same face. Same voice. But looking at her made me nauseous.

"It's nothing, Mom. Probably ate something weird—my stomach's off."

I leaned into her shoulder, masking the hatred in my eyes. She stroked my hair like she still had the right.

***

We pulled up to the Benetton estate.

Chuck was already at the door, waiting like nothing had happened.

The same guy who'd had his hands all over someone else's bump just two hours ago now pulled me in close, rubbing my stomach like he cared.

"Coraline said you weren't feeling well," he said softly. "I rushed home. Made pumpkin cream soup—it's almost done. Eat a little, then rest."

That's when I noticed the apron.

If I hadn't seen what I saw at the hospital, I might've believed it. That the guy fussing over me still loved me.

He'd even moved near the Adelson estate after our wedding—just to be close to them.

He called my name in his sleep.

But it was never me he loved.

It was Sharon. Always Sharon.

He married me for her. Lived a lie for her. Lied to me—for years.

Honestly? His acting deserved an award.

"Sebastian, Coraline," he called out, "come join us for dinner."

Chuck settled me on the couch, then disappeared into the kitchen.

My parents couldn't stop gushing—how lucky I was to have a husband like him.

I stared at the painting on the wall. I'd always hated it. Could never figure out why Chuck insisted on hanging that ugly thing front and center.

But when my parents came in and made a beeline for it—eyes locked on the faint letter "S" tucked in the corner—I got it.

It wasn't about the art. It was about the artist.

"Dinner's ready."

As the plates hit the table, it finally sank in—Chuck had never once cooked something I actually liked.

For six years, I told myself it was fine. He worked so hard, the least I could do was adjust.

But now? I wasn't so sure. Maybe it wasn't his taste at all.

Maybe it was Sharon's.

"Yasmine, you okay?" Chuck asked, placing food on my plate.

I must've looked pale.

Mom looked at me, hesitant. Her voice was tight.

"Seeing you two so happy... it really puts us at ease. It's just that..."

She didn't finish. Didn't have to. It was always Sharon—lurking in every good moment like a bad habit.

Back then, I'd just stay quiet. Guilt was my second skin. I was lucky they "picked" me over their real daughter.

Dad cut in. "We just hope she's okay. She's still our blood. Life in Nyamara must've been rough. If she's alive, that's enough."

Then he turned to me. "Yasmine, don't blame your mom. Sharon's paid her dues. What's done is done. Let it go."

Hearing him echo Mom's words, I thought, to them, Sharon already paid the price. So I almost dying was just karma?

I dropped my gaze, letting the silence speak.

Chuck caught it. First time he looked at me like that—cold. "Yasmine, Coraline's getting old. Why the attitude?

"It's been six years. You took Sharon's life and ran with it for over twenty. You can't blame Coraline. Blood's blood. A mom never really lets go of her kid.

"Honestly, Sebastian and Coraline always owed Sharon. Remember that house in the suburbs they saved for her? I'll take them there this weekend. Call it a tribute. You don't have to come."

He made it sound like a choice, but it wasn't. I looked at them—Chuck, frosty. My parents? Dead quiet. But I got the message loud and clear. Say no, and I'm the villain.

"Alright. Go. She was your real daughter. I was part of the mess too. Makes sense to pay respects."

I said it cool, like I was fine.

Chuck lit up. "Knew you were the sweetest. Don't worry, I'll make your favorite before we head out."

Mom wiped her tears and pulled me in. "You always have a kind heart. Thank you—for Sharon. We're the ones who failed her."

Hot tears slid down my neck. I hid in her arms, shaking.

They claimed they wronged her, so that justified messing with my head for six years? They gaslit me so hard, I almost felt bad for Sharon.

Like maybe I deserved the knife.

But I didn't ask to be switched. That wasn't on me. And my real parents never tried to steal someone's kid.

Yeah, I lived a life that wasn't mine. But if Sharon had wanted it back, I would've walked away without a fight. I never wanted this mess.

So tell me—what exactly did I do to earn all that betrayal?

Pain stabbed my chest. I bolted to the bathroom, dry heaving. Chuck trailed right behind, patting my back, panicked.

"What's going on? You just had a check-up, right? What'd the doctor say? Is it your stomach? If something's wrong, we'll fix it. Don't ignore it."

His voice was soft, too soft. Worried—or worried I might be pregnant?

"Chuck," I said, steadying myself. "I'm pregnant."

I forced a sweet smile. "You're gonna be a dad. The doctor called it a miracle. Aren't you happy? We're finally having our own kid."

His smile dropped. He stared at me like I'd just confessed to murder.

"Yasmine, don't mess around. That's not funny. The doctor said you couldn't carry a baby."

His voice cracked. Eyes wide. Full-on panic.

This was my husband.

"I'm not joking. Aren't you happy?"

I held on, hoping.

Chuck straightened up, all serious. "Babe, the doctor said your body can't handle this. You need to end it. What if something happens to you?"

The word "babe" coming from him made my skin crawl.

"What if I don't want to?"

Chuck didn't even blink before deciding to get rid of our child. Suddenly, I wondered if maybe being infertile had been a blessing—at least my child wouldn't be born into this mess.

"Babe—"

"Just kidding." I smiled, pressing into his chest. "The doctor said I still can't have kids. Thanks for sticking around."

And thanks—for everything you did to me.

***

The weekend hit fast. Chuck got up early, kissed my cheek, and whipped up three dishes and a soup like a man on a mission.

"Yasmine, I'm taking Mom and Dad out. Stay safe, okay? Call if anything happens."

I nodded, tears sliding down as I unlocked my phone.

Sharon was outside. I'd gotten the pic before Chuck even woke up—her, kicked back in a car, smug as hell.

The messages?

[Yasmine, so what if you married him? I'm the one having his baby.]

[You really think they're headed to the villa to mourn me? Don't be stupid. I've been living there for years. ]

[Today's my prenatal checkup. I casually said I wanted the whole fam there—and just like six years ago, they all came running. A few fake tears and boom, they picked me again.]

[Your life's a joke.]

Attached were dozens of photos—Chuck with Sharon on trips, sometimes even with my parents. Sightseeing. Vacationing. Laughing.

And me? I used to light up over the tiny souvenirs he brought back.

The despair hit hard. I closed the chat and booked a flight for the next day.

Knowing Sharon, she wouldn't let them come home tonight. That gave me just enough time to disappear.

By noon, I forced down a few bites, then got to work. Sorting evidence. Stacking it all up.

Honestly? I had to thank her. If she hadn't gotten cocky, I wouldn't have this much dirt.

With this, I could leave Chuck with nothing.

And before I walked out for good, the world was going to see exactly who they really were.

***

By the time I was done, it was already 10 p.m.

No surprise—Chuck wasn't coming home. He called me on video. The camera was blurry, but I could feel her there. Sharon, probably just out of frame.

I didn't say anything. Just smiled and promised I'd take care of myself.

The next morning, I was up early. A crew showed up—contractors I'd hired. Anything I couldn't pack? I told them to rip it out.

As for the little trinkets Chuck gave me? I'd seen identical ones on Sharon's socials. Mine were just duplicates. Leftovers.

I didn't want any of it.

Two hours later, the team rolled out with truckloads of stuff. I sat down with a lighter and pulled out every photo from the past few years—burned them one by one.

The fire alarm went off, screaming.

I grabbed my suitcase and walked out.

This was my goodbye gift to Chuck. By the time he made it back, I was already gone. Out of the house. Out of the city.