Chapter 1

Introduction:

I gave up my career as a high-powered hotel executive for my husband, Alexander Vance.

Only to find out that the son I poured my heart into raising wasn't mine at all.

My biological baby had been quietly sent away by Alexander the day he was born.

Now, I'm going to get my real son back—and I couldn't care less about being Mrs. Vance anymore.

Chloe's POV

"Mr. Vance, this is the boy's third hospitalization," Dr. Hayes said, his voice coming through the speakerphone. "The repeated blood work confirms his type doesn't match Mrs. Vance's at all. If we keep covering this up, she's going to find out sooner or later. What do you want me to do next?"

I froze in the hospital's emergency stairwell.

The heavy fire door was cracked just an inch. The chief physician's office was right inside, and Alexander's deep, steady voice filtered out clearly.

There was a two-second pause on the other end before Alexander spoke. "Just keep her placated. Don't let her suspect a thing. Hide it as long as you can."

Dr. Hayes sighed heavily. "And what about the other boy? Leaving him out there forever isn't a long-term solution. What if he comes looking for her one day—"

Alexander cut him off coldly. "Leave him where he is. Don't interfere. Just wire the money every month like clockwork. We'll deal with the rest later. I have a board meeting to run. I'm hanging up."

The call disconnected with a sharp beep, plunging the office into dead silence.

My back pressed hard against the freezing concrete wall, the boy's lab results crumpling in my trembling fist.

Before getting married, I was one of the most sought-after luxury hotel general managers in the industry.

By twenty-five, I was running five-star properties, turning down headhunters left and right.

Every single anniversary was meticulously planned by me. I even laid out the exact tie he would wear the night before.

And today, I finally understood what all those years of devotion were worth: "Just keep her placated."

With shaking fingers, I opened my phone and pulled up the Instagram post Alexander shared the day our child was born.

In the photo, I was fast asleep, utterly exhausted, while a tiny, wrinkled fist curled beside me.

His caption read: "Thank you for bringing this miracle into my life. I promise to protect you and our son forever."

That day, when they wheeled me out of the delivery room, I was too weak to even open my eyes.

He had leaned in close, whispering every word of that caption into my ear. I had wept tears of pure bliss.

I thought I was listening to a lifetime commitment.

Little did I know, while he was reciting those sweet vows, one baby had already been discarded and shipped away.

And as I lay in that hospital bed, I didn't even know which baby was truly mine.

My feet felt completely hollow as I drifted back toward the pediatric ward.

The boy was sound asleep, his long eyelashes casting soft shadows over rosy cheeks.

For years, every time I looked at him, I convinced myself he inherited my features.

Standing beside the crib now, scanning every inch of his face from his brow to his chin, I realized there wasn't a single trace of me in him.

Three hospitalizations, and I had stayed up every single night monitoring his fever, logging every fluctuation down to the tenth of a degree.

All those sleepless nights, nursing a child that didn't even belong to me.

After staring at him for a long time, I grabbed my purse and walked out. A passing nurse greeted me, but I couldn't even manage a nod.

At the hospital entrance, a familiar black SUV was idling. My brother, Julian, stood leaning against the driver's door, straightening up the moment he saw me.

He had just flown in from an overseas business trip, dark circles under his eyes.

I had casually mentioned this morning that the boy had a follow-up exam, and he took note, driving straight here to pick me up.

"What happened? Why are you so pale?" Julian asked, frowning as he hurried forward.

I reached him, but my knees buckled, and I collapsed against the side of the car.

I couldn't breathe through my sobs. Clinging tightly to his sleeve, only one broken sentence left my lips: "Julian... help me find my son. Please, I beg you, find my baby."

In all my life, I had never begged anyone for anything.

Today was the first time—and it was for a child whose face I had never even seen.

Julian helped me into the passenger seat, his voice firm and steady: "I will."

As the car pulled into traffic, my phone buzzed with a text from Alexander: [Got an important client dinner tonight, won't be home for dinner. Don't wait up.]

In the past, seeing a text like that would send me straight into the kitchen to prepare detox juice for his hangover.

"Julian," I choked out, my voice raw and hoarse, "every Saturday, he personally drives the boy to his enrichment classes. He never let me come along. I used to think he was just being a thoughtful father. But now... do you think..."

I couldn't bring myself to finish the sentence.

Julian glanced at me in the rearview mirror. "Don't jump to conclusions yet. Let me investigate first."

Late that night, I sat alone in a downtown café until every other customer had cleared out.

I pulled up that old Instagram post again, slowly swiping through all nine photos.

The year he proposed, he bought our sprawling suburban villa.

He had wrapped his arms around me and whispered that it would always be my sanctuary, a place where I'd always be protected no matter what life threw at us.

I had cherished those words for years.

Now I saw the truth: that house was nothing more than a golden cage designed to keep me docile so I wouldn't pry into his secrets.

My finger trembled so violently that a cold numbness spread from my fingertips all the way to my elbows.

I dropped the phone onto the table.

Seconds later, the screen lit up with an incoming FaceTime call from Alexander.

Assuming he had sobered up and wanted to talk, I sniffled and accepted the call. But his face wasn't on the screen.

The camera shook wildly—it was the boy holding the phone, running down the hospital hallway.

"Slow down, sweetheart, you're going to fall!" a woman's gentle, playful voice called out, followed by the soft padding of house slippers against the floor.

The boy panted happily into the camera, yelling in a high, bright voice, "Auntie Vivian, come look! Look at the Lego castle I built!"

*Auntie Vivian.*

A name I had never once heard come out of his mouth.

Beside the hospital bed where I stayed awake all night dispensing medication and checking temperatures, another woman had been standing there all along. And I was the only fool kept in the dark.

The phone slipped from my numb fingers, clattering against the edge of the table before landing face down on the wooden floor.

The café door swung open, and Julian walked briskly inside. He bent down, picked up the phone, and tapped the red button to end the call.

"Leave the rest to me," he said quietly, placing the phone back in front of me.

I kept my head down, barely whispering that I just wanted to sit alone for a little while longer.

Julian studied me for a long moment, refrained from pushing further, and stepped outside.

Through the window, the horizon began to pale with the first light of dawn.

Starting today, I was done being Mrs. Vance.