Our house has been quieter lately, but not in the tense, suffocating way it used to be. It was different now — more… settled. For the first time since we started this uneasy arrangement, things seemed to be shifting.
Hannah had softened. She no longer pushed as much, no longer forced conversations or tried to win me over with over—the—top gestures.
I had started to notice her in ways I hadn’t before. Not just as the woman tangled in my life because of a mistake, but as someone who, in her own way, was trying.
When I came home from work, she didn’t bombard me with questions about my day; she gave me space but always offered a warm dinner and a quiet smile.
Somewhere in the routine of it all, a fragile bond began to form. It wasn’t love, not even close, but it was something — respect, maybe, or understanding. We started sharing small moments: laughing softly at a silly baby name suggestion, sitting in comfortable silence on the couch while she flipped through a parenting book.
There were nights I’d catch her talking to her growing belly, her voice soft and hopeful, and something inside me would ache. I’d think about the life we were trying to build — not for us, but for the child.
It wasn’t what I had dreamed of. It wasn’t Abigail. But for the first time, it felt like something real was beginning to grow between us, fragile as it was. And for now, that had to be enough.
It’s been a long day, one of those relentless ones at the office where the stack of paperwork seems endless. I hang my coat on the rack and loosen my tie, heading toward the kitchen for a glass of water.
As I approach, I hear Hannah’s voice. She’s in the living room, speaking on the phone. At first, I think nothing of it and keep moving, but something in her tone makes me pause just outside the doorway.
The keys slip from my fingers as I reach the front door.
“God, Melanie, you should see how he dotes on me now. Rich, handsome lawyer Vincent Austin, playing the perfect husband.”
I freeze, hand on the doorknob.
“Of course he bought it! Men like him are so desperate to do the right thing.” Another laugh, cruel and sharp.
“I mean, it hasn’t been easy,” she says, her words slightly muffled but clear enough.
“Getting him to care about me, I mean. He’s so… distant. But I think I’m making some good progress in it.”
I frown, leaning against the wall. She’s talking about me.
“It’s frustrating,” she continues, letting out a huff of laughter. “But I’ll give him credit. He’s a good provider. More than I could’ve asked for, really. And let’s be honest, that’s all that matters, right?”
My chest tightens. What is she saying?
She laughs again, this time sharper, almost mocking. “It’s not like Oliver could’ve given me this life. That idiot could barely keep a job, let alone provide for me and the baby.”
My blood turns to ice. Oliver? Who the hell is Oliver?
“You should see the house, Mel. I’m living like a princess, really. I just have to get him to stop pining over her, and everything will be perfect.”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. My stomach churns as the meaning behind them sinks in. She’s been using me all this time — manipulating me.
My briefcase hits the porch with a thud. Hannah’s voice cuts off mid—sentence.
“I’ll call you back,” she whispers.
I’m through the door before she can move, finding her perched on our — my — leather sofa, phone clutched to her chest like a shield. Her face drains of color.
I step into the room, my movements sharp and deliberate. “Hannah.”
She jumps, nearly dropping her phone. Her eyes widen, panic flashing across her face as she stammers, “Vincent… I didn’t hear you come in.”
“That much is clear,” I say, my voice cold. “Who were you talking to?”
She fumbles for a response, clutching the phone to her chest. “It was just a friend. Nothing important.”
“Really?” I take a step closer, my gaze hard and unyielding. “Because it sounded pretty damn important to me.”
“Vincent, you don’t understand,” she starts, her voice rising with desperation. “It’s not what you think — ”
“Who’s Oliver?”
She flinches. “You weren’t supposed to be home yet.”
“Answer the question.” My voice sounds strange, distant. Like it belongs to someone else.
“You don’t understand—”
“Oh, I understand perfectly.” The rage builds slowly and steady, a gathering storm. “I understand you’re a lying manipulator who destroyed my life for a meal ticket.”
“That’s not fair!” She stands, one hand protectively over her stomach — the stomach carrying a child that might not even be mine. “Everything I said about wanting us to work—”
“Pack your bags.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Get out. Now.”
Tears well in her eyes — fake ones, I realize now. Everything about her has been fake.
“You can’t throw me out. I’m your wife. I’m carrying your child!”
“Are you?” The laugh that escapes me sounds borderline hysterical. “Because from what I just heard, that’s as much a lie as everything else.”
“You misunderstood—”
“DNA test.” The words hit like bullets. “Tomorrow morning. If that baby isn’t mine, I’ll bury you in so many lawsuits you’ll wish you’d never heard the name Vincent Austin.”
Her mask slips for just a moment, revealing something cold and calculating beneath.
“And if it is yours?” Her voice turns silky. “What then?”
The question stops me short. What then? What if this one piece of her elaborate con turns out to be true?
“You can stay until the results come back,” I manage through gritted teeth. “Guest room. Don’t speak to me unless absolutely necessary.”
“Vincent, please—”
“I lost everything for you.” The words taste like blood in my mouth. “My fiancée, my love, my future, my self—respect — all because I thought I was doing the right thing. Taking responsibility.”
Her silence is answer enough.
“If this baby isn’t mine…” I step closer, watching her shrink back. “I will make you pay for every moment of happiness you stole from me. Every. Single. Moment.”
I turn and climb the stairs to my office, legs barely holding me up. Behind me, I hear the soft sound of Hannah crying — real tears this time, maybe.
The first honest thing about her.
The whiskey bottle calls to me, but I ignore it. I need a clear head for what’s coming. My phone sits heavy in my pocket, Abigail’s number still memorized after all these months.
Would she even answer if I called? Would she care that our future was destroyed by a con artist’s careful manipulation?
Some mistakes can be undone. Some wounds can heal.
But first, there will be blood.
