Chapter 1

“I’m sorry, Miss Natasha… this is the third DNA test. Steve is really not your biological son.”

The doctor’s voice felt like thunder splitting the quiet room apart. For a moment, I just sat there—frozen, staring blankly at the white walls—as if I hadn’t heard him correctly. My fingers tightened around my handbag until the leather creaked.

That couldn’t be true. It wasn’t possible.

I gave birth to Steve. I carried him for nine months, felt every kick, every heartbeat inside me. I remembered the way he cried when they first handed him to me—tiny, warm, perfect.

My son. My baby.

I forced a laugh, my throat burning. “That can’t be right, Doctor. There must be a mistake. Maybe the samples were switched again.”

He sighed, removing his glasses. “We verified everything twice. The hospital staff handled it carefully this time. There’s no error. The DNA results are conclusive—Steve doesn’t share your genetic markers.”

His words crashed into me like waves. My chest tightened until it was hard to breathe. “No,” I whispered, shaking my head. “That’s impossible.”

But deep down, something cold began to settle in. Because I wouldn’t even have done this test—wouldn’t have questioned anything—if not for the accident.

Two weeks ago, our little boy was rushed to the hospital after being hit by a car while crossing the street. He was fine, but when they needed a transfusion, the doctor said his blood type was A. Both Stephen and I were O.

That was the moment everything stopped making sense.

Now, sitting in this sterile white room, the truth stood before me, undeniable. My son—the boy I had loved and raised for five years—wasn’t mine.

My hands trembled. “Then… whose child is he?” I murmured, my voice barely audible.

The doctor looked away. “We can’t tell without more investigation. But it’s possible there was a mix-up during delivery.”

A mix-up. A simple, clinical word for something that shattered an entire life.

I nodded numbly, thanking him, though my mind was far away. As I walked out of the hospital, the evening air hit my face—cold, sharp, real.

I had to talk to Stephen. He would know something. Maybe there had been an accident at the hospital. Maybe he’d been hiding it, trying to protect me. That had to be it. Stephen loved me. He had to.

After all, we had been together for nearly ten years. Our marriage might have been arranged, but love had grown between us—slowly, steadily. Stephen could be ruthless in business, but with me, he was gentle. When I was lonely, he always made time. When I cried, he held me like the world was ending.

That was the man I knew.

And tonight was our anniversary. I would ask him. We’d talk. We’d fix this—together.

But by evening, my hopes began to crack.

Stephen called just as I was finishing my makeup. His voice was calm, apologetic. “Natasha, I’m sorry, but something came up at the company. I’ll need to reschedule our dinner.”

My heart sank. “Can’t it wait? It’s our anniversary.”

“I know, love. But this deal is crucial. You understand, right?”

I did what I always did—smiled, swallowed the disappointment. “Of course. Take care, okay?”

After we hung up, I tried to ignore the ache in my chest. Maybe he really was busy. But the craving for the restaurant’s pasta—the one he’d specially reserved for tonight—kept tugging at me.

So, I went. Alone.

When I arrived, the waiter looked surprised but led me toward the private dining rooms upstairs. That was when I saw her.

Lana. My adopted sister.

She was walking toward the same room Stephen had reserved. My stomach turned cold. What was she doing here? Maybe she was meeting her secret boyfriend—the one she always refused to talk about.

Curiosity—and something darker—drove me to follow.

The door wasn’t fully closed. I heard voices first.

“Are you sure she’s not coming here?” Lana’s voice. Soft, almost teasing.

Then a man’s low chuckle followed. One I knew too well. “Of course not. Natasha always believes what I say. I told her to stay home and look after Steve—since he’s still recovering.”

The air left my lungs.

Stephen. I pushed the door slightly open, my heart pounding.

They were standing close. Too close. And then—he kissed her.

My world tilted.

Lana laughed softly, brushing his cheek. “I still feel bad, you know… that I wasn’t there for our son. When are you going to tell her I’m his biological mother? I hate pretending to be the ‘auntie.’”

Stephen smiled, cupping her face. “Soon. Just wait until all of Natasha’s inheritance transfers are finalized. After that, she’ll be nothing but my wife on paper. You and I will have everything—and our son will be the rightful heir.”

Lana’s voice trembled slightly. “And what if she finds out you swapped the babies? That you sent her real daughter to an orphanage?”

He chuckled, cruel and calm. “She’ll never know. Natasha’s too gullible. She trusts me completely. I’ll make sure she stays that way. And besides…”—his tone softened—“I owe you everything. You saved me five years ago from that cruise accident. You showed me what love really is. I’ll make it up to you both, I promise.”

Another kiss. Another betrayal.

The sound of my heartbeat roared in my ears. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t scream. Every word stabbed deeper until I couldn’t tell if I was breathing or dying.

He swapped the babies. My daughter—my real child—was gone.

I turned and stumbled away before they could see me, tears burning my eyes. The floor beneath me felt like it was collapsing with every step.

Back at the hospital, I demanded to see the records from five years ago—every nurse, every file, every witness. My hands were shaking as I signed the request forms.

Then, as soon as I left the hospital, I pulled out my phone. My voice was steady, colder than I’d ever heard it.

“This is Natasha Smith,” I said to my lawyer. “File me a divorce. As soon as possible.”