“We’re getting divorced,” my husband suddenly blurts out, skewing. “That’s it. Enough. I’m done listening to how your kids scream around the house.”
“By the way, they’re also yours…”
“No,” he cuts in, calm and harsh. “I should have said this a long time ago. During the transfer, they used not my material.”
“You’re delirious…” I exhale, unable to believe it.
“And one more thing, darling,” a smug smile appears. “You signed the marriage contract. When we divorce, the entire business goes to my children. Which means you’ll only get it until they come of age. But yours… not mine. So none of what I earned next to you will go to them.”
***
My husband didn’t just cheat—he finished me with his confession: during IVF, they used 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 a way out, I reach for someone who can help—a cold, cynical lawyer who can’t stand women.