The gathering crowd made everything worse. I could feel their eyes on me—other expectant mothers with their partners, nursing staff who had paused their rounds, visitors who couldn't help but stare at the pregnant woman falling apart in the luxury wing. Their whispers created a buzzing backdrop to my nightmare.
"Please," I whispered, clutching my marriage certificate with trembling hands. "Just look at this. Our wedding date, our signatures—"
Drew stepped forward, his expression shifting to one of practiced concern. "Amelia, I think your pregnancy hormones are affecting your judgment more than we realized." His voice carried just the right note of gentle authority, the tone of a reasonable man dealing with an unreasonable situation. "Remember what you told me about your childhood? The trauma with your biological father? Sometimes stress can trigger old patterns."
The words hit me like ice water. Those were private confessions, whispered in our bed during vulnerable moments when I'd trusted him with my deepest wounds. Now he was weaponizing my pain against me, turning my honesty into evidence of instability.
"How dare you," I breathed, but my voice lacked strength. The baby kicked frantically, as if trying to escape the toxic atmosphere.
Vivienne pressed closer to Drew, her voice carrying just far enough for the growing audience to hear. "She's been calling our home for months, showing up at Drew's office. I've been so frightened." Tears—actual tears—welled in her perfectly lined eyes. "The poor thing clearly has some kind of obsession."
"That's not true!" But even as I protested, I could see doubt creeping into the faces around us. To them, I looked exactly like what they were painting—a disheveled, emotional pregnant woman confronting a composed, elegant couple.
My hands shook as I fumbled for my phone. Archer would know the truth. Archer had been at our wedding, had walked me down the aisle when my adoptive father was too ill to attend. "I'm calling my brother. He'll tell you who I really am."
But as I lifted the phone to my ear, Drew's hand shot out and gently took it from me. "Let me talk to him, sweetheart. You're too upset right now."
"No!" I reached for the phone, but Drew was already stepping away, speaking in low, concerned tones.
"Archer? It's Drew... Yes, I know this is unexpected... I'm afraid Amelia is having some kind of breakdown... No, she's safe, but she's at the birthing center claiming to be my wife... I think she needs professional help..."
Each word felt like a nail in my coffin. I could only imagine what Archer was thinking, hearing Drew's calm, rational voice explaining away my "delusions."
Vivienne moved closer to a cluster of staff members, her voice a stage whisper designed to carry. "It's so sad, really. Drew told me about her troubled past—the abuse, the abandonment issues. She's created this whole fantasy where she's married to him."
The nursing supervisor, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes, approached me cautiously. "Mrs... Miss? Perhaps you'd like to sit down? We could call someone for you?"
The pity in her voice was almost worse than the accusations. I was becoming the crazy pregnant lady, the cautionary tale they'd whisper about later.
Then I saw it. As Vivienne gestured dramatically, her sleeve rode up slightly, revealing the designer maternity dress underneath her elegant blazer. My designer maternity dress. The soft lavender silk with pearl buttons that Drew had bought me just two weeks ago, claiming he'd seen it in a boutique window and couldn't resist.
"That's my dress," I said, my voice cutting through the murmur of conversations. "You're wearing my dress."
Vivienne glanced down, then back up with practiced innocence. "This old thing? I've had it for months."
But I knew every detail of that dress—the tiny snag near the left shoulder where I'd caught it on our car door, the way the fabric draped to accommodate my changing body. "There's a small tear by the shoulder seam. Check it."
For just a moment, Vivienne's composure flickered. Her hand moved instinctively to cover the spot I'd mentioned.
"The receipt is probably still in our bedroom," I pressed on, gaining strength from this tangible proof. "Drew bought it with our joint account two weeks ago. The boutique was Seraphina's on Fifth Street."
Drew ended his call and returned my phone, his expression carefully neutral. "Archer's very concerned about you. He's coming right over."
But I was no longer listening to his lies. I was staring at Vivienne, watching her fingers nervously adjust the neckline of my stolen dress, seeing the way she unconsciously touched each piece of my sister's jewelry like talismans of her deception.
"How long?" I asked, my voice suddenly steady despite the chaos around us. "How long have you been stealing my life?"
Vivienne's smile was sharp as broken glass. "Darling, I didn't steal anything. I simply took what was never really yours to begin with."
