Chapter 3

"Helen, I didn't say anything."

"It must be you!" Helen pointed her finger at my nose. "You're just terrified of this boy taking your inheritance! Don't think I don't know what you're up to. You've been married to my son for six years, and you haven't even given him a single child. Now you won't even let him have his own?"

Those words were like a dagger thrust straight into my chest.

Barren.

I had heard that whispered behind my back for six years.

Every Thanksgiving dinner, every family reunion, when relatives asked, "When are you starting a family?" Helen would always be the first to chime in: "Oh, who knows? Maybe her body just isn't up to it."

Later, she didn't even bother to hide her disdain. She would say right at the dinner table:

"I don't know what cursed fate brought us a woman who can't even get pregnant."

Ethan always defended me. But he couldn't shield me forever.

And today, she threw that insult right in my face in front of an outsider.

"Mom," Ethan’s voice was ice-cold. "If you want to blame someone, blame me. Do not talk to Chloe like that. I am the one who decided not to have kids. It has nothing to do with her."

Vanessa spoke up again, her voice trembling and weak.

"Mrs. Carter, please don't fight... It's all my fault. I shouldn't have come..."

"No, you were right to come!" Helen held her hand tightly. "In this house, the innocent shouldn't be the ones bowing down!"

The days that followed were a living nightmare.

A post went viral on a local Facebook group with a sensational headline: [Barren High-Society Wife Denies Husband's Secret Son His Birthright].

The post was written with agonizing detail.

"My name is Vanessa. I’m a single mother. Four years ago, I gave birth to a boy. His father is a prominent business owner in this city."

"He was already married, and because I didn't want to ruin his family, I raised our boy alone."

"But now, my son is sick and needs his father's medical history. I had no choice but to find him."

Below the post was a photo of the little boy crying outside our front door—obviously taken in secret.

The comments section exploded.

"Is this wife insane? Keeping a sick kid away from his dad?"

"The poor boy is sick! He just wants to see his father. How cold-hearted can you be?"

"The husband is trash too. Sleeping around and refusing to take responsibility!"

"Single moms unite! Expose this toxic couple!"

Soon, someone doxxed me.

My phone blew up. Hundreds of threatening text messages from unknown numbers poured in.

"Are you the monster keeping a sick child from his dad? Have some shame!"

"Can't get pregnant yourself, so you won't let anyone else have a baby? What a psycho!"

"I hope you stay barren forever!"

Every single text sliced into me.

Even Ethan's company was targeted.

Protesters showed up outside his office building holding signs: "Ethan Carter, Face Your Son," and "Deadbeat Dad, Give Your Child a Father."

His business partners called him. "Ethan, what is going on with this internet scandal?"

Ethan spent hours explaining, but even though they sounded understanding, their tones had shifted.

That's how these things go. Once you're accused, the truth doesn't seem to matter.

You will always be "the guy with the secret kid."

One evening, Ethan came home from work looking completely drained.

"What happened?" I asked.

"A major client just backed out of our contract," he said, leaning back on the couch and closing his eyes. "They said they can't do business with someone of 'questionable moral character'."

I sat beside him and took his hand.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I dragged you into this."

"You didn't drag me into anything," I replied. "Someone is targeting us."

A week later, we received a court summons.

Vanessa was suing us.

She was demanding legal recognition of paternity, retroactive child support, medical expenses, and emotional distress damages—totaling three million dollars.

Her lawyer told the local news: "Three million is a perfectly reasonable cost to raise a child. If the other party is willing to cooperate, we can settle out of court."

Three million.

She knew exactly how much our family was worth.

She chose a number that would hurt, but not enough to make us fight to the death.

This woman was incredibly calculating.

On the day of the hearing, it was raining.

I wore a simple black coat and light makeup. Ethan held my hand, his palm soaked in sweat.

"Don't worry," I whispered.

He let out a dry laugh. "I'm not worried. I just find this whole thing incredibly absurd."

Absurd. That was an understatement for the circus our lives had become.

A crowd had gathered outside the courthouse—reporters, onlookers, and internet trolls.

Someone spotted me and yelled, "That's her! The cold-hearted woman keeping a father from his sick son!"