Six months into our marriage, I still believed in happy endings. Despite the shadow that hung over our wedding day, despite the nightmares that woke me screaming with visions of my mother's body broken on the pavement, I clung to the hope that Curtis and I could build something beautiful from the ashes.
I was a fool.
The first crack in my carefully constructed reality appeared on a rainy Tuesday in March. Curtis had left his laptop open on his desk when he rushed out for an emergency board meeting. I hadn't meant to snoop—trust was the foundation I'd rebuilt my life upon—but a notification flashed across the screen. An email from Dr. Rachel Morgan with the subject line: "Saanvi Clark - Updated Medical Documentation."
My fingers hovered over the keyboard, my heart suddenly hammering against my ribs. Saanvi was supposed to be serving a reduced sentence in a minimum-security facility, her pregnancy the reason for the court's leniency. Curtis visited her weekly, returning with updates about her health, her remorse, her struggle.
"She's paying for her mistake," he would assure me, his eyes never quite meeting mine. "But she needs support. She's carrying a child, Hazel. An innocent life."
I clicked the email.
Attached were meticulously crafted medical records—ultrasounds, blood work, psychiatric evaluations—all documenting Saanvi's high-risk pregnancy. But it was the invoice that made my blood run cold. Curtis had paid Dr. Morgan's team over $200,000 to create a paper trail of a pregnancy that, according to these very communications, didn't exist.
"Maintain consistent narrative re: third trimester complications," read one note. "Client requests additional documentation for upcoming parole hearing."
My hands trembled as I opened another email thread, this one between Curtis and James Blackwood, the CFO of Elliott Corporation.
"Transfer another 50K to the offshore account for S's living expenses. The penthouse renovations are complete."
Penthouse? Not prison cell?
I grabbed my coat and called a taxi. The address in the email led me to a gleaming high-rise in Tribeca, one of the most expensive buildings in the city. The doorman greeted me with a smile.
"Mrs. Elliott! What a pleasure. Ms. Clark isn't expecting you, is she?"
He knew me. Which meant Saanvi knew I might come here. Which meant Curtis knew too.
"It's a surprise," I managed, my voice steady despite the earthquake inside me.
The elevator ascended to the penthouse level. I used the key code from Curtis's email—my wedding date, a final twist of the knife—and stepped into a sun-drenched apartment with panoramic views of the Hudson. There was no pregnant woman here, no remorseful prisoner. Just Saanvi Clark, sleek and slim in designer yoga wear, laughing into her phone.
She froze when she saw me, her eyes widening before narrowing into calculated assessment.
"I have to go," she said into the phone. "Curtis's wife just showed up."
She set the phone down, tilting her head as she studied me. No baby bump. No ankle monitor. No sign of confinement or consequence.
"Well," she said, her voice soft but edged with something that made my skin crawl. "This is awkward."
"You were never in prison," I stated, the words falling like stones between us.
Saanvi shrugged, pouring herself a glass of wine—another confirmation of her non-pregnant state. "Curtis thought it would be better this way. For everyone."
"Better to lie to me? Better to let my mother's killer go free?"
"Your mother got what she deserved," Saanvi replied, her mask of fragility dropping completely. "And Curtis got what he wanted—you. Though I can't imagine why, when you're so... breakable."
I left without another word, the truth crystallizing with terrible clarity. Curtis had never chosen me. Not when it mattered. Not when it came to her.
Two years passed in a haze of denial and discovered lies. I became a ghost in my own marriage, searching for evidence, building my case in silence. Curtis grew distant, spending more nights at "the office" than at home. I knew he was with her.
Then came the forum post.
Curtis had forgotten to log out of his account on a pregnancy advice website. The question he'd posted made my stomach turn: "My sister is 8 weeks pregnant and unsure if she should keep this baby given her history. What would you advise?"
The responses were sympathetic, supportive. But it was Curtis's follow-up comments that destroyed me:
"She's had several difficult losses before. Each one takes a toll on her mental health."
Several. Not just the one fake pregnancy she'd used to escape justice. Several.
I hired a private investigator the next day. Amias had warned me about Curtis from the beginning, and now my cousin connected me with the best PI in New York. Within weeks, I had the full, horrific picture: four abortions over three years. Each time, Saanvi had claimed to Curtis that she'd miscarried due to stress. Each time, he'd paid for exclusive "recovery treatments" at private clinics.
Each time, he'd lied to my face while comforting my mother's killer.
