My name is Audrey Robinson, and for five years, my husband, Zayn, and I tried for a child. For five years, I endured the disappointment, the pressure from his family, and his increasingly pointed comments about my inability to conceive. Then, on our anniversary, he confessed.
“Audrey,” he said, his voice heavy but devoid of emotion, “I need to tell you something. Laya, my secretary… she’s pregnant. Seven months now.”
The words felt like a blade. Seven months. The math spun in my head—it was right after our last big argument about having children, right when he started pulling away.
His apology was soft and hollow. “Audrey, I’m sorry. I was drunk. It was just that one time.”
I stared at him, the man I’d loved since our university days, the man my father admired, the man everyone called my soulmate. The wedding ring I had meticulously designed for him, the one he’d recently claimed to have “forgotten” after a swim, was a symbol of a promise that now lay shattered on the floor.
He continued, his voice pleading. “Addy, the baby is already seven months along. Please let her keep it.” He paused, then added in a softer tone, “I’ll walk away with nothing. But please don’t take this child away from her.”
The betrayal felt even more unbearable knowing he had allowed the pregnancy to progress without a word. He truly believed his desperate attempt to “fix” his mistake would somehow redeem him.
“Once she gives birth,” he said, his eyes hopeful, “we can raise the child as our own. We’ll give her a sum of money and send her far away. Doesn’t that sound good?”
At that moment, I could feel my nails digging into my palms. The absurdity of it all was almost too much to bear. Did he really think I could be so utterly devoid of self-respect that I would accept another woman’s child into my marriage?
“So Zayn,” I asked, my voice steady, betraying none of the heartbreak that churned within me, “what exactly do you plan to do?”
Seeing my controlled demeanor, he relaxed. “Audrey,” he murmured, pulling me into a cold embrace, “that baby is ours. Thank you for supporting my decision.”
I wasn’t just supporting his decision. I was quietly plotting my own.
A few days later, I arranged a full medical examination, keeping it to myself. A week later, the results came in. Every indicator was perfectly normal. There was no sign of infertility. As I held the test results, a quiet relief washed over me, quickly overshadowed by a heavy realization. This could only mean one thing: there was a very high chance that the child in Laya’s womb wasn’t Zayn’s at all.
Five years of marriage, and we had never conceived, yet they had succeeded on the very first try. The irony was a cruel joke.
“Zayn,” I thought, a cold resolve hardening inside me, “if you want a child so badly that you’d betray our marriage, then fine. I’ll give you what you want. And I’ll make sure you get exactly what you deserve.”
I told Zayn I was willing to consider his proposal but needed to feel more secure. I suggested he transfer our jointly owned fixed assets—fifteen properties and seven luxury cars—into my name. He hesitated, but my performance of a heartbroken but willing wife was convincing. He believed I couldn’t possibly turn the tables on him. He believed he was still in control. A week later, the documents were officially notarized.
Soon after, Laya came to see me at a café. I deliberately left the notarized property agreements in plain sight on the table. Her eyes landed on the papers, and her face tightened.
“Zayn gave you all the properties?” she asked, her tone laced with barely concealed anger.
I smiled, my expression calm. “It’s just some compensation, that’s all,” I replied coolly.
Her gentle demeanor vanished. “Sister,” she said, her voice soft but her hand caressing her belly in a provocative motion, “I came here today to apologize to you.”
“He already told me,” I said, taking a sip of coffee. “Since you’re seven months along, you should focus on taking care of yourself. If it’s a Robinson child, I’m sure Zayn’s parents will be very welcoming.”
I deliberately emphasized “a Robinson child.” For a split second, I saw her stiffen before she recovered. “Of course, it’s Zayn’s child,” she replied, though a tremor of uncertainty lingered.
My friend Elise, who worked at Zayn’s company headquarters, did some digging for me. She discovered that eight months ago, Laya had a boyfriend. They broke up, and soon after, Laya resigned, pregnant. Everyone assumed the child was Zayn’s. Elise tracked down the ex-boyfriend, Ezra Sullivan.
After my divorce from Zayn was finalized—an agreement where he, drowning in guilt, gave me 80% of his savings and company shares—I met with Ezra. He was rugged and unrefined, a far cry from what I expected. I showed him a photo of Laya, pregnant, with the Robinson family.
“We’ve already broken up,” he said, his response indifferent.
“If we go by the timeline,” I said, “Laya got pregnant around August of last year. Are you sure you didn’t sleep together after you broke up?”
Realization dawned on him. “Wait, are you saying this child might be mine?”
I gave him a firm nod. “That boy is yours, 100%. The man in this picture, he used to be my husband. But he has fertility issues. It’s impossible for him to have gotten Laya pregnant.”
The moment my words landed, Ezra slammed his fist on the table. The quiet man was gone, his face twisted with rage. “Where are they?”
I handed him the addresses of Laya’s postpartum care center and Zayn’s company. I knew that men from traditional backgrounds took bloodlines very seriously. Ezra’s explosive reaction confirmed it.
The next time I heard about Laya and Zayn, it was from the local news. Ezra was standing in front of Zayn’s company headquarters, holding a massive banner: “CEO ZAYN AND MY EX-GIRLFRIEND LAYA, RETURN MY SON TO ME.”
The public uproar was immediate. The comment section exploded. “Just get a paternity test.” “Honestly though, that kid looks nothing like the CEO. He’s way too dark-skinned.” “This CEO looks so familiar. Why do I feel like I’ve seen him at a urology clinic?”
The company’s stock price plummeted. I looked at the substantial sum in my bank account from selling my shares at their peak and couldn’t help but smile.
The paternity test proved the child was Ezra’s. The fallout was spectacular. In a viral video, Zayn, his face grim, tore the report to shreds before furiously punching a hospital wall. Laya, disheveled and broken, tried to jump from the eighth-floor window, screaming, “You useless man! No wonder you and Audrey couldn’t have a child! You blame me for cheating, but you’re the one who’s broken! Pathetic!”
Zayn was fired. The industry blacklisted him. Neighbors reported sounds of domestic violence from his home. His mother called me, crying, begging for money. Zayn had been diagnosed with a difficult-to-treat illness, and Laya had suffered a mental breakdown. They were both in need of treatment, and the family had been drained dry.
I listened to her cries but offered no sympathy. Their fate was what they deserved.
My own journey was just beginning. I poured my energy into my work, designing a new collection of starry-themed rings for single women. “Most stars are independent celestial bodies shining with their own light,” I explained to my team. “They don’t rely on the moon to exist. Just like us. We are independent individuals. We don’t need to rely on anyone or any relationship to define our existence.”
For the first time in a long while, I felt like I was truly on the right path. I had started this journey unsure of myself, but now, with each step, I was becoming the woman I had always wanted to be: strong, independent, and unapologetically myself. In losing the husband who betrayed me, I had designed the ultimate masterpiece: my own life, built on the ashes of his.