“We’re getting divorced,” my husband unexpectedly hisses, warping. “Enough. I’m not going to listen anymore to how your children scream around the house.”
“By the way, they’re also yours…”
“No,” he cuts off, calmly and firmly. “I should have said this a long time ago. During the implantation, they used not my material.”
“You’re out of your mind…” I exhale, unable to believe it.
“And one more thing, dear,” a smug smirk appears. “You signed the marriage contract. When we divorce, the entire business goes to my children. That means you—only until they come of age. But yours… not mine. So they won’t get a single ruble of what I made next to you.”
***
The husband didn’t just cheat—he finished me off with his confession: during IVF, they took someone else’s biological material. Now I have two tasks: find out who the real father of my children is, and leave my husband with nothing. In my search for an exit, I reach out to a person who can help—a cold, cynical lawyer who can’t stand women.