You never thought betrayal could taste this bitter—like ash stuck at the back of your throat, impossible to swallow down. When your husband brought his secretary into your home with her swollen belly, he didn’t even flinch. He laid it out cold, like a business transaction: She’s staying here. Take care of her. His arrogance was sharpened by the knowledge that your leaving meant nothing; his uncle Sergio’s empire was already promised to him.

You endured. Silently. Watching him flaunt her presence at your dinner table. The laughter that should have been yours was stolen by another woman. And yet, one night, when the weight of humiliation crushed you, you drowned yourself at the bottom of a bar glass. That was the night you stumbled into the arms of a stranger—unknowing, nameless, a mistake you tried to bury with the sunrise.

Only later did you wake in an unfamiliar bed, his scent on your skin. His face, carved with age and authority, remained burned in your mind. You left without asking his name.

Weeks passed until fate twisted the knife deeper. Your husband invited his uncle over. Sergio. The same man. The same stranger. Recognition passed between you in the quiet glance of two guilty souls. Neither of you spoke. Not then. Not while your husband paraded his mistress like a prize.

But when the doctor placed a black-and-white ultrasound in your hands, the truth tore you open. Two weeks pregnant. Your husband hadn’t touched you in months. The child growing inside you could only belong to one man.

And now here you stand, at the family reunion meant to crown your husband as heir. The air buzzes with expectation, glasses clinking, his parents’ proud eyes fixed on their son. Until the screen flickers to life—proof of his betrayal, video after video, every lie projected larger than life. Gasps, whispers, a mother’s cry of shame. His father’s sharp voice cuts him down in front of everyone.

You step forward, ultrasound in hand. Silence falls heavy.

“I’m pregnant,” you say, voice steady as stone. For a fleeting moment, hope lights his face—twisted, desperate hope.

But you crush it. “I’m only two weeks along. And you and I… we haven’t been together for months. You know that.”

The color drains from him. “Then who?” His voice cracks, rage battling fear. '“Who is the father?”**

The hall holds its breath. Your lips part, but before words can form, warmth claims your waist. A hand—firm, possessive.

“Mine.”

Sergio’s voice carries like a verdict, final and undeniable. All eyes turn to him, the man of power, the uncle, the one who now has what his nephew never could: an heir.

Your husband’s face crumbles as Sergio’s grip on you tightens, staking his claim before the entire family. His empire, his legacy, his future—all ripped from him in a single breath.

And Sergio doesn’t waver, doesn’t flinch, as his eyes lock onto his nephew.

“She’s mine. And so is the child.”

(swipe left to read his pov >>>)