Chapter1

My husband donated his sperm to his stepsister—and asked me to give up our home for her and their child.

The night I held a pregnancy test with two red lines, ready to tell him the news, he was in her kitchen cooking porridge for her instead.

He stole my architectural design, put her name on it, forced me out with nothing, and traded our five-year marriage for the heir in her belly.

“You won’t get a single cent,” he said, tossing the agreement at my feet.

What they don’t know is this—the design they stole is powerful enough to drag them from the clouds straight into hell

……

My husband's stepsister posted an ultrasound photo on Instagram.

The caption read: "Thank you, God, for making my family complete."

My husband's stepsister posted an ultrasound photo on Instagram.

The caption read: "Thank you for finally giving me a child of my own."

In the photo, beside the ultrasound was a sperm donation agreement. At the bottom of the agreement, my husband's signature was clear as day.

I stared at that signature for a full minute. Then I pushed open his study door and held up my phone in front of him.

"Penny's pregnant with your child?"

Damian glanced at the screen. His face flushed instantly red. He stood up, voice louder than mine. "Why the hell are you stalking her Instagram? Are you sick?"

"Answer me."

"Penny has depression!" He shouted. "She's been starved for love since childhood. Is it wrong that she wants to be a mother now? She begged me to help. I just donated sperm! It's called charity—do you understand?"

Charity.

I stared at his face. Five years of marriage, and for the first time this face looked like a stranger's.

I swiped my phone screen. The next photo appeared—her kitchen. Damian's back at the stove, something cooking in a pot.

Caption: "Baby's daddy personally cooking porridge for me. He says this place makes him feel the warmth of home."

I stared at that photo. That silhouette was too familiar. Five years of marriage, he'd never cooked me porridge once.

"Is this charity too?" I asked.

He froze, leaning over to look at the screen. In the photo he wore that gray hoodie I'd bought him last week, sleeves rolled to his elbows.

"I went to bring her some food," he loosened his tie, voice softening. "She has severe morning sickness, can't keep anything down, so I made some porridge and brought it over. Vivi, don't overthink this. I really have no feelings for her—just helping her out."

I said nothing.

He moved closer trying to hug me. "I really have no feelings for her, just helping her out. When her depression acts up she'll commit suicide—I can't just ignore her. You're kind-hearted, surely you understand, right?"

I dodged his hand.

"How far along is she?"

"About two months... I didn't ask for details..."

Two months.

I placed my hand on my own abdomen.

I was pregnant too. Two months.

The pregnancy test was still in my bag. I'd planned to tell him tonight.

"Vivi," he checked his watch. "Can't talk now. Penny said she wants savory porridge. I'm going to bring her some. Should I bring you one back too? Your favorite."

"No need."

"Then what do you want to eat?"

"I don't want anything."

His expression changed. That placating smile disappeared, replaced by an impatient frown. "I've already humbled myself explaining to you. What more do you want? She's a depressed patient—should I just watch her die? Can't you be more magnanimous?"

I looked at him without speaking.

"Fine, fine, if you want to be angry, be angry," he grabbed his car keys. "I'll come back after I deliver the porridge."

The door closed loudly.

I stood alone in the study, hand still on my stomach. That little life was only two months old.

My phone buzzed. Penny posted another photo.

This time it was two hands. A man's large hand resting on her still-flat belly. That hand had a faint mark on the ring finger—the trace of a wedding band removed.

Caption: "Baby's daddy came to keep us company. He says holding us is when he truly feels like this is home."

Her child had a father with her. Mine didn't.

I stared at that hand. That was the hand my hand once held. Five years ago when he placed the ring on my finger himself, he'd said he'd never take it off.

When did he remove it? I didn't know.

My phone buzzed. Damian sent a message:

"Left the porridge by your door. Calm down. I'm not coming home tonight—keeping Penny company, she's not doing well emotionally."

I didn't reply.

I walked to the door and saw that plastic bag. Opened it—a bowl of thin porridge, already cold, rice clumped together, bits of meat floating. Made from leftovers.

I picked up the bowl and poured it in the trash.

Then I returned to the bedroom and pulled out that pregnancy test from my bag. Two red lines, clear as day.

I'd planned to tell him tonight. We'd been married five years. He'd always wanted a child. I could never get pregnant.

This time I'd finally conceived. I thought he'd be happy.

I opened my phone and found the number for the obstetrics hospital.

Tomorrow, 8 AM. Schedule the procedure.

This child couldn't be born.

Couldn't be born into a home like this, couldn't have a father like this.

That little life hadn't even formed yet.

I closed my eyes. Tears fell, soaking into the pillow.

My phone buzzed again. Penny's Instagram updated.

She posted a selfie—Damian lying beside her, hand still on her belly. Both had their eyes closed, smiles on their faces.

Caption, just two words: "Complete."