“But if Julian is sterile…”
“We were supposed to use a donor,” Isabella cried. “A specific donor. Marcus.”
Marcus Vance. Julian’s cousin. The ambitious, sleazy one who always hovered in the background.
“But I couldn’t do it,” Isabella whispered. “I couldn’t sleep with him. And the IVF didn’t work. So Zenobia came up with this. The fake pregnancy. We were going to adopt a baby secretly in Europe next month and pass it off as Julian’s. But if you do a DNA test on your twins… and they turn out to be Julian’s… it proves he can have kids. And if he can have kids, everyone will wonder why my ‘baby’ doesn’t share his DNA.”
My mind was racing, connecting dots that had been scattered for years.
“Wait,” I said, a cold realization washing over me. “The Lake House.”
“What?”
“Three months before Julian kicked me out. The party at the Lake House. Julian got blackout drunk. Marcus was there. He kept bringing me drinks. Water that tasted bitter. I got so dizzy… Marcus offered to drive me home. He tried to come inside.”
I grabbed Isabella’s arm. “Did Zenobia try this with me?”
Isabella nodded miserably. “Yes. Marcus told me. That was Plan A. Get Julian drunk, drug the wife, have Marcus impregnate her. But you locked the door. You didn’t let him in. Zenobia was furious. She decided you were ‘useless’ because you were too difficult to manipulate. So she threw you out.”
I felt like I was going to vomit. It wasn’t just a bad marriage. It was a breeding program. A conspiracy. And I had escaped by the skin of my teeth.
“But here’s the twist,” I said, looking at the fake belly. “Julian isn’t sterile. The twins are his. I took a test the day I left. I never slept with anyone else.”
Isabella stared at me. “But… the doctors said…”
“Zenobia lied to Julian,” I realized. “She probably told him he was sterile to control him, to justify the weird schemes. Or maybe it was a medical miracle. It doesn’t matter. The twins are his.”
Isabella looked at the cash on the table, then at me. “If Zenobia finds out I came here…”
“She won’t,” I said, a plan forming in my mind. sharp and deadly. “You want to be free of her? You want out of this contract?”
“More than anything.”
“Then we need to burn it all down. Together.”
The next day, I didn’t go to court. I went to the event planner for the Vance Family Charity Gala. It was taking place in two days. A massive event to raise money for the hospital—and to show off the expectant couple.
“I want to donate,” I told the planner. “A massive donation in honor of my mother’s recovery. But I want five minutes at the microphone.”
Money talks. They added me to the schedule.
The night of the Gala, the ballroom was glittering. Everyone who was anyone in Boston was there. Zenobia sat front and center, wearing red velvet, looking like a queen. Julian sat next to her, looking miserable. Isabella was on his other side, cradling her fake bump, looking pale.
Marcus was there, too, smiling smugly near the bar.
When the emcee announced my name, a hush fell over the room. Zenobia stiffened. Julian dropped his glass.
I walked onto the stage wearing a dress that cost more than my first car. I adjusted the microphone.
“Good evening,” I said, my voice steady. “Tonight we are celebrating life. Family. Legacy.”
I looked directly at Zenobia.
“Three years ago, I was told I was useless to the Vance family because I couldn’t provide an heir. My husband threw me out into the rain.”
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
“But the truth is a funny thing,” I continued. “It has a way of surfacing. I recently learned that the obsession with an heir drove this family to dark places. Drugging wives. Attempting to force them onto cousins.”
Marcus choked on his drink. Zenobia stood up. “Cut her mic! Security!”
“I have proof,” I said, holding up a flash drive. “But I don’t need a screen. I have a witness.”
I gestured to the table. “Isabella?”
Isabella stood up. She looked at Zenobia, who was glaring at her with murderous intent. Then she looked at me. She took a deep breath.
And she unzipped her dress.
Gasps echoed off the vaulted ceiling as Isabella reached in and unbuckled the straps. She pulled the massive silicone belly out and dropped it onto the pristine white tablecloth.
“It’s a lie!” Isabella shouted, her voice breaking. “There is no baby! Zenobia forced me to fake it because she needs an heir for the trust fund!”
The room erupted into chaos. Flashbulbs went off like strobe lights. Zenobia looked like she was having a stroke.
“But that’s not the only surprise,” I said into the microphone, regaining control of the room. “Zenobia thought her son was sterile. She tried to replace his bloodline with Marcus’s. But she was wrong.”
I pointed to the double doors at the back of the room. My father walked in, holding hands with Leo and Luna. They were dressed in their Sunday best, looking like miniature versions of Julian.
“These are Leo and Luna Vance,” I announced. “Julian’s biological children. Born seven months after he kicked me out.”
I pulled a document from my clutch. “I have the DNA results right here. 99.9% match to Julian Vance.”
I looked at Julian. He was staring at the twins, tears streaming down his face. He took a step toward them.
“Don’t,” I said, my voice cutting like a whip. “You don’t get to go to them. You chose your mother. You chose your silence. You chose to throw us away.”
I turned back to the crowd.
“The Vance legacy is built on lies, coercion, and silicone. And as of tonight… it is over.”
I dropped the mic. It hit the floor with a deafening thud.
The fallout was nuclear.
The investors pulled out of Vance Enterprises the next morning. The board of directors voted to remove the family from control within the week. Zenobia was investigated for fraud and conspiracy—Isabella turned state’s witness, testifying about the debts, the coercion, and the fake pregnancy scheme.
Marcus left the country. Julian… Julian had a breakdown. He lost everything. His money, his reputation, his family.
I returned to Savannah a week later. I took the twins, my mother (who was recovering beautifully), and a sense of lightness I hadn’t felt in years.
Isabella stayed in Boston for a while to deal with the legal mess, but eventually, she moved to California. She sends me postcards. She’s studying art history. She’s happy.
I never heard from Julian directly again. He sends child support checks—court-ordered—but he has never tried to visit. I think the shame is too heavy a burden to carry across state lines.
One evening, I was closing up the bakery. The scent of vanilla and yeast hung in the air. I went upstairs to the apartment. Leo and Luna were asleep.
I opened the closet and pulled out the box of old things. I took out Grandmother Pearl’s diary. I didn’t need it anymore. The secrets were out.
I walked to the window and looked out at the moss-draped oaks of Savannah.
Three years ago, I thought my life was over because a cruel woman called me useless. I thought I was broken.
But as I looked at my sleeping children, and the business I built with my own two hands, I realized the truth.
Zenobia was the useless one. She had money and power, but she had no love. She had destroyed her own son to save a name that meant nothing.
I had walked through the fire and come out made of gold.
I turned off the light. Tomorrow was a busy day. I had cakes to bake. I had a life to live. And for the first time in a long time, the silence wasn’t empty. It was full of peace.
