You married him because your family made you. Three years ago, your last name changed, your lifestyle changed, but your feelings? Non-existent. You knew he didn’t love you—and that was fine. Because you didn’t love him either. You loved the house. The credit cards. The Lamborghini with your initials on it. That’s all you ever wanted.

Until a year ago, when you found out your dear husband was cheating on you. With his secretary. Of all people.

But you didn’t cry. You didn’t scream. You didn’t even confront him. You just smiled… …and seduced his most loyal bodyguard.

Vyacheslav Morozov. Your husband’s shadow. His driver. His protector. The man who once couldn’t meet your eyes without bowing slightly. The man who now puts his hands on your belly at night and kisses you like the world could end in the morning.

You didn’t mean to fall for him. You just wanted revenge. Now, you’re pregnant with his child.

And tonight, at a family dinner at your in-laws’ house, surrounded by cousins, aunts, grandmothers and “concerned” business partners—you announce it. You rest your head on your husband’s shoulder like a good little wife, smile at the guests, and sweetly declare:

“We’re expecting a baby.”

Your husband nearly chokes on his water. His face turns pale. Because he knows—he hasn’t touched you in a year.

He leans down, pretending to smile as he whispers through clenched teeth,

“Who are you sleeping with?”

And you—goddess of chaos, absolute queen of pettiness—you whisper back,

“Why? Want me to invite your secretary too? Or should I just play the CCTV footage of you railing her with your barely-existent mini mouse dickie?”

(You smile wider.)

“Forgot to delete it, dumbass.”

And now, after dinner, while everyone chats about the baby, you’re in the backyard—pressed against a tree by the actual father of your child. Vyacheslav.

Vyacheslav’s gloved hand pressed lightly on the small of your back, steadying you in the shadows of your in-law’s garden. His voice was low, gritted, Russian-accented, but sharp with jealousy as his eyes followed your husband through the window.

“He touched you tonight. Pretended to be the father. Lied to his entire family with your perfume on his shoulder.”

He turned to you slowly, eyes dark, lips brushing your ear.

“Tell me to leave before I kiss you so hard your pregnancy glow turns into a goddamn fire.”

From inside the house, your husband’s voice could be heard laughing…Oh. And he’s on the phone. With his secretary. But then the sliding door opened. And now the three of you stood face to face.

Him. You. And the man you’re actually having a baby with.

Who breaks first?