The Seven-Year Scam: My Daughter is My Husband's Mistress's Child

It took seven years of marriage for me to find out the truth. The girl I carried for ten months, gave birth to, and raised with my own hands for six years was never mine. My husband had used my body as a surrogate for his mistress!

Today, my daughter won an award for an essay called “My Most Loved Mom.” At the parent meeting, the teacher invited me onstage to read it out loud.

But the mom she wrote about who loves dyeing her hair, loves wearing high heels, has a heart-shaped face, and always smells good? That woman wasn’t me.

The other parents started questioning. I practically ran out of the school. Halfway home, a doctor told me: my daughter has zero blood relation to me.

I took hormone shot after hormone shot and choked down bitter meds to carry and give birth to my daughter! How on earth could she not be mine?!

I couldn’t fucking believe it, so I went to confront my husband. I caught him holding my daughter’s hand, taking her into his mistress’s filming set.

I heard it myself. How they laughed about tricking me for seven years. How they used me to give birth, raise the kid, pay the bills, waste my time, my body, my money, my life.

It felt like knives tearing through my chest. I couldn’t breathe. But even then, I told myself, ‘Fine, my husband is a heartless piece of shit. The kid, though? I raised her for six years. She has to love me, at least a little.’

But the next second, I watched as she threw her arms around that woman and smiled so sweetly. She said she liked the pretty mommy. She didn’t like me, the ugly, worn-out woman.

That night, my husband slid a document across the table. A divorce agreement dressed up like some bullshit business contract.

He planned to take the mansion, the company, even the gifts I got during our wedding and still expected me to keep slaving away, raising a child for him and his mistress like some obedient idiot!

And just like he wanted, I signed it without asking a single question.

What that asshole didn’t know was that I had already changed the terms.

He was going to walk away getting not a damn thing.

My husband doesn’t love me. My daughter doesn’t want me. Fuck it, I don’t want them either.

I picked up the phone and called overseas.

“Dad,” I said, “I’m getting divorced. I’ll come home. I’ll inherit the family estate. And I’ll find a man who marries into the family.”

1

Mariah’s POV

On the day of my daughter’s parent-teacher conference, my life completely turned over.

It should have been a happy day. Cruella had won first place in a citywide writing competition with an essay about gratitude toward her mother. As her parent, I was invited to represent the families and go onstage to share my “parenting experience.”

When I stepped up to the podium, I was still smiling.

But that smile froze the moment I read the first line aloud.

“My mom loves dyeing her hair in all kinds of colors. Not long ago, she dyed it brunette again.”

Instinctively, I reached up and touched my hair.

Black. I had never dyed it. I tried to calm myself. Maybe children exaggerate.

But then came the second sentence.

“My mom loves wearing high heels. She looks especially beautiful when she walks.”

I don’t own a single pair of high heels. I gave them up completely after getting pregnant.

A sense of unease crept in, but I forced myself to continue.

“My mom isn’t very tall. She has a heart-shaped face and doe eyes.”

My throat tightened. I couldn’t go on.

I’m 5’7”, broad-shouldered, with a round face.

Nothing in her description matched me.

A parent suddenly spoke up from the audience.

“Teacher, may I ask, how authentic is this essay? If it doesn’t match reality, is it really appropriate for it to win first place?”

In that instant, it felt as though someone had slapped me across the face in public.

I barely held myself together, made an excuse about feeling unwell, and left early.

The moment I sat in my car, I realized my hands were shaking.

A strange, nameless panic rose in my chest.

Before I could sort through my thoughts, a notification popped up on my phone. It was our family’s medical checkup report from the hospital.

When my eyes landed on the final line, my entire body went rigid.

[Child’s blood type: A]

I checked it again. And again. Three times in total.

My husband, Viggo, and I—one of us is AB, the other B.

No matter how you calculate it, we could never have an A-type child!

My first reaction was that the system must be wrong, so I immediately called the doctor.

After listening, he asked carefully, “Has your daughter’s father always handled her medical checkups?”

“Yeah,” I replied.

There was a brief pause. When the doctor spoke again, his tone was cautious and deliberate.

“There is only one explanation.”

“Either the child was switched at birth… or you are not her biological mother.”

I heard the last sentence. But I couldn’t understand it.

I carried Cruella for ten months. I endured countless shots to protect my pregnancy. I even vomited blood from severe reactions. How could she not be my child?!

I hung up and, almost on instinct, slammed my foot on the gas and drove home.

I needed an explanation from Viggo!

What the fuck is actually going on?!

But as soon as I reached the hallway, I saw him holding Cruella’s hand, about to head out.

I heard my daughter say excitedly, “Yay! Finally, Daddy, we get to watch Mommy act again! I’m so happy!”

Viggo reminded her gently, “Be good, okay? When we get to the set, don’t cause trouble for Mommy.”

A set? Acting?

A sharp pain spread through my chest. My first thought was he’s cheating.

But what the hell did an affair have to do with Cruella not being my biological child?

She came out of my body!

I needed answers, so I secretly followed them.

The car drove toward a film set on the outskirts of the city.

Viggo led Cruella straight inside.

I called my assistant, and ten minutes later, I walked into the set as well.

Then, I watched with my own eyes as Cruella let go of Viggo’s hand and ran happily toward a woman.

“Mommy!”

The woman crouched and scooped her up with practiced ease, her voice soft and familiar.

“Why are you running so fast? What if you fall?”

The moment I saw her face, I stopped breathing.

Carmilla.

My former college roommate, the one I had fallen out with completely.

Viggo walked over, naturally wrapping an arm around her shoulders, then leaned down and kissed her cheek.

“I’m late. Did you wait long?”

Carmilla smiled and kissed him back, her tone intimate. “The last scene just wrapped. Perfect timing. Didn’t you say you booked a hotel?”

“Mm,” he replied. “It’s our tenth anniversary. We can’t be careless.”

Tenth… anniversary?

I stood in the shadows, my entire body turning numb.

Seven years. That’s how long I had been married to him. Nine years. That’s how long I’d even known him!

Yet, they didn’t hide their affair, speaking without avoiding Cruella or anyone else.

Everyone around them acted like this was old news.

Carmilla pouted playfully. “When are you planning to divorce that woman? I’m established now. We can finally be together openly. We can make it official.”

Viggo replied softly, “Not yet. Her father’s money hasn’t fully come through.”

Carmilla frowned. “Seven years of marriage and you still haven’t squeezed all the value out of her?”

He chuckled. “Jealous now? Wasn’t marrying her your idea? You said she had a strong build, good for having kids. You wanted her to carry the baby so you could focus on your career without worries, right?”

Carmilla snorted lightly, her eyes smug. “Well, Cruella’s already grown. I hate hiding like this. I don’t want paparazzi calling me a mistress someday, when I knew you first.”

Viggo nodded, his tone soothing. “Don’t worry. I’ve always been careful with her. She’ll never get pregnant with my child.”

“Cruella will be our only child. I’ll handle the divorce cleanly and then marry you.”

My mind exploded with a loud buzz.

All those years, Viggo had claimed he had weak fertility. He begged me again and again to do IVF. He even knelt and swore he would love me for life. I softened. I agreed.

For an entire year, I endured injections, hormone treatments, and pregnancy preservation. God, I nearly died on the operating table!

All along, it was never about wanting a child, huh?

It was about getting a child without Carmilla paying any price!

They had secretly switched the embryos!

I had unknowingly become their surrogate!

Before I could process this absurd truth, Cruella suddenly hugged Carmilla’s leg and looked up at her.

“Mommy! I like you so much!”

“I hate the mommy at home!”

“She’s not pretty, she’s always strict, and she forces me to learn so many things I don’t even like!”

At that moment, my heart went completely empty.

I watched the husband who had always acted like an emotionally clueless “straight man” fuss tenderly over Carmilla.

I watched the girl I had raised for six years, who had never once said “Mom, I love you,” cling to another woman and pour out her affection.

I left the set like a walking corpse. Then I called my dad, with whom I had cut ties years ago just to marry Viggo.

My voice, however, came out unexpectedly calm.

“Dad.”

“I’ve thought it through.”

“I want a divorce. This family… I don’t want it anymore.”