Chapter 3

I moved into a studio apartment near the university that rented for three hundred dollars a month.

Next door was a restaurant. Cooking oil fumes seeped in through the window cracks.

I sat on the hard bed and stared at the pregnancy test for a long time. Two bright pink lines, piercingly clear.

My phone rang. Ethan.

"Vivian Stone, you still haven't canceled that company credit card."

"I'll take care of it tomorrow when we go to the courthouse."

"Fine."

I was about to hang up when Blair's voice came from his end. "Ethan, does she still have the company access card? I saw it in her bag last time."

Ethan paused. "Bring the access card too."

"What else?"

"That's it for now."

He hung up. The phone screen glowed, showing three years of chat history with Ethan.

His first message to me was: Miss Stone, thank you for helping me out today.

That day he'd been negotiating with a client who suddenly raised the price. He was sweating profusely.

I happened to be there and discreetly helped him reorganize the contract terms. The other party signed on the spot.

Ethan didn't know that client was already connected to my family.

He only knew his wife worked as a supermarket cashier making thirty-five hundred dollars a month.

For three years of marriage, I'd maintained that persona.

The next morning, Ethan's mother called.

"Vivian, have you finished packing?"

"I'm packing."

"Don't bother with those clothes of yours—they're nothing special anyway. Also, those pickles you used to make, Blair said they're pretty good. She wants the recipe."

I'd made pickles for three years. Ethan ate them every day. My mother-in-law had never praised them once.

"I'm not giving it to her."

"What kind of attitude is that?" Her mother-in-law immediately changed her tone. "You're already divorced and you're still being petty? Blair's family has real status. She's doing you a favor by asking for your pickle recipe."

"What status?"

"Blair's parents run an import-export company in New York. Not everyone's a supermarket cashier like you." Her mother-in-law lowered her voice.

"Vivian, I'll be honest with you. I was never really satisfied when Ethan married you in the first place.

You've been hardworking these three years, I'll give you that. But people move up in the world. Ethan's company is growing now. You can't keep up."

"Blair and Ethan were college classmates. They're a perfect match. Now that she's back, don't stand in the way."

Last year when Ethan nearly went bankrupt over a bad debt and couldn't even pay employee salaries, I used my family's connections to recover that bad debt.

Ethan thought the debtor had a sudden attack of conscience and repaid voluntarily.

He was so happy when he came home that day. He hugged me and said, "Honey, we're so lucky."

"I'm not giving her the pickle recipe. Do you have anything else to ask?"

My mother-in-law hung up angrily.

Half an hour later, Ethan sent a message: My mom says you had a bad attitude. We're already divorced—don't make this uglier than it needs to be.

I didn't reply.

I turned my phone face-down on the bed and touched my stomach.

In three months, I'd start showing. By then I'd return to the family as the only heir who'd successfully conceived, and take over everything.

Ethan's company that he'd worked so hard to build was worth three million. In front of the Stone family, that wasn't even pocket change.

That afternoon I went to the hospital to register for prenatal care. While waiting in the queue, my phone rang again.

Blair, calling from Ethan's phone.

"Vivian, sorry to bother you. I found a bottle of folic acid in your old bedroom. I wanted to ask if it's yours or if it was left by the previous tenants?"

Folic acid. That was what I'd been taking while trying to conceive.

I gripped my phone tightly.

"Throw it away. It's expired."

"Okay. By the way, Ethan asked me to ask you—when are you canceling the credit card?"

"Tomorrow."

"Great, bye then."

She hung up. My hand was trembling. Not from anger, but from fear.

Blair had found the folic acid.

"Will she figure it out?" I stared at my phone, talking to myself. No one answered.

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