“I’m pregnant,” I announced cheerfully to my husband.
“So am I,” replied my sister, stepping out of our bedroom.
The words had tumbled out before I could stop them, a grin spreading across my face.
Oliver, standing by the window, froze. He didn’t turn around, but I saw his shoulders tense in the glass reflection.
I’d expected hugs, shouts of joy—anything but this strange, stiff silence.
“So am I,” came Lillian’s quiet voice.
My sister emerged from our bedroom wearing Oliver’s T-shirt—the same one he slept in, the one I loved.
She smoothed her hair, a casual, domestic gesture that made my vision darken for a second.
Flashes of things I’d ignored before flickered through my mind.
Oliver working “late at the office.” Lillian dropping by “just to chat,” nervously glancing at her phone.
The two of them laughing at some private joke while I stood there, a guest at my own life’s party.
“Wait… what?” My voice sounded wooden, though I’d heard her perfectly.
“Annabel, I can explain,” Oliver finally turned. His face was as pale as a hospital wall. “It’s not what you think. It’s… a mistake.”
Lillian stared straight at me, not a trace of guilt in her eyes—just exhaustion and something stubbornly determined.
“It’s not a mistake,” she said flatly, glaring at Oliver. “Stop lying. At least now.”
He shot her a furious look.
“Shut up!”
I looked between them—my husband of five years and the sister I’d shared childhood secrets with. They stood barely two metres away, but it felt like an abyss. And into that abyss tumbled every “us”—our plans, our tenderness, our future child.
“A mistake, then,” I repeated, lips twisting into a bitter smile. “So, is it one shared mistake, or one each?”
Oliver stepped toward me, hands outstretched.
“Annie, darling, let’s talk. Just… not now. Lillian, leave.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” she said calmly, folding her arms. “We’re having a baby. And I won’t let you pretend I don’t exist anymore.”
I backed away until the hallway wall pressed cold against my spine.
“Get out,” I whispered.
“What?”
“Out. Both of you.”
They didn’t move. The weight my words once carried had dissolved into empty air.
“Annie, don’t be hasty,” Oliver said in that placating tone I hated—the one he used when he wanted me to “be reasonable.” “You’re a smart woman. We’re adults. Yes, I messed up. But now we have to think about the children. Our children.”
He stressed the last words, trying to stitch us back together with imaginary thread.
“Which ‘our’ children are you referring to?” I asked venomously. “The one raised by a single mother, or the one born to his father’s mistress?”
Lillian flinched, swallowing a sob.
“Don’t call me that. You don’t understand.”
“Oh, really?” Cold fury pushed aside the shock. “Enlighten me. What am I missing? That you slept with my husband in my bed? Not enough?”
“It wasn’t like that!” Her voice hardened. “We love each other. This isn’t just some fling.”
Oliver gripped his head.
“Lillian, I told you—”
“And I’m tired of hiding!” she snapped. “Tired of being your dirty secret, your ‘mistake’ to fix! Annie, you always got everything. The perfect husband, the perfect home. And me? Always second best. Just ‘Annie’s sister.’”
Her words dripped with ancient resentment. She wasn’t apologising—she was accusing.
I remembered our mother saying throughout childhood, “Annie’s the clever one, Lillian’s the pretty one. Different gifts.” Seems Lillian never made peace with hers.
“So you decided to take mine?” I asked softly.
“I took what was left!” she hissed. “He wasn’t happy with you. You just refused to see it.”
I looked at Oliver. He wouldn’t meet my eyes. And I realised she was right—not about love, but about how he’d let her believe it, complaining about me, feeding their sick little bond with his weakness and her jealousy.
“Fine,” I said, and at my calm, they both stiffened. “Suppose that’s true. What’s the plan? A three-way marriage? Or a custody schedule?”
Oliver lifted his head.
“Stop it! This isn’t productive. I suggest… we live apart for now. I’ll rent Lillian a flat. Support you both. We need time to figure things out.”
He spoke like he was negotiating a business deal. Asset division. Risk management.
“So you want me to sit here, pregnant, while you ‘figure out’ which pregnant woman to pick?” I laughed—a horrible, grating sound.
“Annie, you’re overcomplicating things.”
“No, Oliver. You simplified them. Straight to the animal level. Get out. Take her with you. Collect your things later—when I’m not home.”
I pulled out my phone and dialled.
“Hello, security? There are trespassers in my flat. Yes, refusing to leave.”
Lillian glared at me with pure hate. Oliver just looked stunned. He hadn’t expected this from me—from sweet, forgiving Annie. But that girl had just died.
My call was a bluff, of course. Our building had no security, just a drowsy concierge. But they didn’t know that. The word “security” jolted Oliver into action.
“You’ll regret this, Annie,” he spat, grabbing Lillian’s arm. “Kicking out a pregnant woman. Your own sister.”
“I’m kicking out my husband’s mistress,” I corrected, holding his gaze. “And you? You’re just a coward.”
When the door shut behind them, I slid down the wall to the floor. But no tears came. Just hollow silence and ringing adrenaline.
The next day, hell began.
First, my boss called.
“Annie, hi. Listen, Oliver phoned… Says he’s worried about your, er, state. Claims the pregnancy’s made you emotionally unstable.”
A chill ran down my spine.
“What else did he say?”
“Asked if we could give you leave—let you ‘rest.’ Mentioned you might not be thinking clearly right now.”
Then I understood. He wasn’t just gone—he was systematically destroying me, painting me as unhinged. Attacking my job, my reputation, my independence.
An hour later, a courier delivered a letter from his solicitor. Thick with legalese, it boiled down to one thing: he was suing for assets. And not half.
He wanted the entire flat, claiming he’d bought it with pre-marital funds and my renovation contributions were “negligible.” But the worst was on the last page—a request for a psychiatric evaluation to determine if I could be a “fit mother” to our unborn child.
There it was—rock bottom. He wanted to take not just my home, but my child. Using my pregnancy as a weapon. Something inside me snapped. The thread connecting me to the old Annie—soft, understanding, quick to forgive—finally frayed apart.
He thought I’d break, beg, negotiate. But he’d forgotten who stayed up nights proofreading his contracts when he launched his business. Who kept his “creative” accounting in a notebook because he couldn’t afford a proper accountant. Who knew every offshore scheme, every “tax optimisation.” I’d been his shadow, his loyal squire. And he’d assumed I was now unarmed.
I walked to the safe we’d bought years ago for “important documents.” Hands steady, I punched in the code only we knew. Beneath deeds and marriage certificates lay a slim file he’d asked me to “just hold onto” years ago. “Insurance, Annie,” he’d said then. “You’re my safest bet.” He’d trusted my blind loyalty so completely, he’d handed me the knife himself.
I dialled an old friend—James, who worked in financial crimes.
“Hey, James. Got a story about a ‘successful’ businessman you might find interesting.”
James warned me: an anonymous tip was just the start. Investigations took time. But the wheels were turning.
The first blow came six months later: an HMRC audit. Frozen accounts. Oliver called—I didn’t answer. Lillian texted: “He left me. No money. Help.” I deleted it.
His downfall was slow, like poison working. Partners backed out, buyers vanished. Once, he called when his card was declined at a restaurant.
“Look what you’ve done, you stupid cow!” he screamed. “You’re ruining my life!”
“No, Oliver,” I said calmly, folding baby clothes. “I just turned on the light. The roaches ran on their own.”
He threatened more, but fear crept into his voice. He lost the property case—my solicitor proved the flat was jointly funded, his “personal”
