Daniel stepped back like I’d struck him.
“What does that mean?” he demanded.
I reached for the folder beside my bed. My lawyer, Mara, had brought it before sunrise, just after I signed the final custody petition with shaking hands and a clear mind.
Vanessa noticed the logo and stiffened.
Daniel didn’t.
“You’re humiliating yourself,” he snapped. “You hid a pregnancy for six months? That’s fraud. That’s kidnapping. That’s—”
“Careful,” I cut in. “You’re using words you don’t understand again.”
His face flushed.
Vanessa stepped closer, her voice sweet and toxic. “Emily, darling, tomorrow is very important. Daniel’s investors will be there. The press too. Don’t make this messy.”
There it was.
Not love. Not fear. Not fatherhood.
Image.
Daniel’s company depended on the image of a visionary family man. He’d secured funding from a conservative family foundation, given interviews about loyalty and legacy, and announced his engagement like a corporate merger.
A hidden newborn from the ex-wife he publicly labeled unstable would be inconvenient.
Especially if the timeline showed he abandoned his pregnant wife.
Especially if the baby was his.
Daniel leaned in. “How much?”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“How much to keep quiet?”
The nurse gasped.
Vanessa grabbed his arm. “Daniel.”
But he was unraveling. “You always wanted money. Fine. Name your price. Sign whatever needs signing. No public drama.”
I opened the folder.
Inside: copies. Medical records. Dated ultrasounds. Bank transfers. Threatening voicemails. Screenshots of Vanessa telling Daniel to “finish the divorce before the pregnancy becomes useful to her.”
Vanessa’s polished smile disappeared.
I watched her recognize her own words.
“You hacked me,” she whispered.
