Chapter 3

Chloe's POV

I stepped out of the elevator into the dim chill of the mall's P3 parking garage, the sharp clack of my heels echoing off the bare concrete.

Following my memory, I walked deeper into the structure. Sure enough, not far ahead, I spotted the sleek black sedan parked in the far corner spot.

I knew that exact stall. Whenever he brought me here shopping, he always parked there.

From just a few spaces away, I had an unobstructed view.

Alexander sat in the driver's seat, his head lowered, while Vivian curled entirely into his chest.

Her slender arm was draped around his neck, her face buried intimately against his collarbone.

The tinted windows were rolled up tight, making it impossible to hear a single word.

Vivian lifted her head, whispering something playfully. Alexander chuckled softly and reached out to pinch her cheek.

I knew that gesture by heart. He used to pinch my cheek the exact same way.

Vivian snuggled deeper into his arms, her lips moving continuously as she talked.

The smile on Alexander's face slowly faded. He muttered a brief reply and turned his gaze straight out the windshield.

I stood beside a massive concrete pillar, fully exposed under the fluorescent lights, making no effort to hide.

I wanted him to look up and see me.

My phone buzzed inside my purse.

The same unknown number had sent a screenshot of a text thread.

I recognized the date at the very top of the exchange instantly: the day my baby was born.

Vivian: [The nurse just carried the baby away. I'm terrified.]

Alexander: [Don't panic. I already had the doctor make the switch. Starting today, our son is her son.]

I had to read those two sentences twice before it sank in that "her" referred to me.

"Our son." The child was his and Vivian's. That was the boy I had cradled to sleep, the one I woke up for in the dead of night to care for all these years.

And on that very same day, Alexander had sat by my hospital bedside, reading every line of that Instagram post to me like a devoted husband.

I had spent years treating that day as the most beautiful moment of my entire life.

The phone buzzed again with a second screenshot.

Vivian: [When are you going to divorce her and marry me?]

Alexander: [What's the rush? Wait until the boy is a little older.]

My mind flashed back to every single Saturday, watching him lead the boy out the front door under the guise of enrichment classes. Every time I offered to come along, he adamantly insisted there was no need.

Year after year, I poured everything into raising that child, completely blind to the fact that I was just keeping the seat warm until their timer ran out.

The third screenshot popped up immediately after.

Vivian: [And what about the one she gave birth to? Are you really going to leave him stranded out there forever?]

Alexander: [We'll wire the monthly check as usual. No need to bring him back, and don't ever visit him.]

My eyes drilled into those final words.

*No need to bring him back.*

*Don't ever visit him.*

I didn't even need to calculate his birthday—he was born on the exact same day as the boy at home. Yet I had never once laid eyes on him.

Just like the phone call I had overheard in the stairwell, his stance had never changed: just wire the money every month.

To him, my flesh and blood was worth nothing more than a recurring automated bank transfer.

I knew Alexander was a selfish monster, but I never imagined he could be this utterly devoid of humanity. To him, an innocent child was merely a line item on an expense report—too much of a nuisance to even look at once.

A violent wave of nausea hit me. I clapped a hand over my mouth, hunching over, unable to straighten up for several long minutes.

The phone gave one final buzz. This time, it was just a line of text: [He doesn't know you're here. Walk away while you still can.]

Not a single word about where my son was actually hidden.

Using the pillar for support, I pushed myself upright and looked back toward the sedan.

Vivian was still nestled comfortably in Alexander's embrace, typing away on her phone with a smug curl on her lips.

Alexander kept his gaze lowered, one arm wrapped around her waist, staring blankly in the opposite direction. Not once did he glance toward the pillar.

I had stood right there in plain sight for so long, and he hadn't even bothered to look up.

From now on, I would never wait for him to turn around again.

I locked my screen, shoved the phone back into my bag, and walked away.

I didn't hail a cab. I walked along the boulevard outside the mall, trekking from dusk until the streetlights hummed to life.

With a sharp snap, my heel gave out.

Blisters had ruptured across the soles of my feet, the raw skin sticking painfully to my ruined stockings.

I kicked off the broken heels, holding them by the straps, and continued walking barefoot on the cold asphalt.

The physical agony was nothing compared to the suffocating dread of having to walk through my front door and call another woman's child "sweetheart."

By the time I reached the villa, the night was pitch-black, and every window was dark.

I stumbled into the master bathroom, dropping to my knees before the toilet, retching until there was nothing left but bitter stomach bile.

When the dry heaves subsided, I sat on the cold tile floor, pulling my knees to my chest, weeping bitterly for how blind and pathetic I had been—grieving the prime years of my life thrown away on a pack of wolves.

Then, a cold clarity washed over me: crying in this house was utterly useless. I needed that DNA report, and I needed my plane ticket.

The next morning, the alarm buzzed, and I forced myself out of bed to put on my makeup.

My eyes were severely swollen. I pressed ice packs to them for half an hour, then layered heavy concealer over my skin until my face looked presentable.

In the mirror, my complexion was pale, but my eyes were burning with cold resolve.

Alexander had left over twenty missed calls on my phone. I didn't return a single one. I grabbed my bag and headed out to finalize my plans.

If those calls had come two days ago, I would have answered immediately.

When I returned home around noon after running errands, the sound of bright childish laughter drifted from the living room.

Vivian was lounging on my plush rug, draped in my luxury cashmere shawl, helping the boy stack wooden blocks.

"Mommy!" the boy called out, spotting me first.

Vivian looked up, plastering a sweet, innocent smile onto her face. "Mrs. Vance, you're back! Alexander is in the kitchen. He said he wanted to cook lunch for you."

The boy glanced at me again, but instead of running over for a hug like he always did, he shrank back against Vivian's side, whispering, "Auntie Vivian, please don't leave."

I stood by the foyer, not even bothering to take off my coat.