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My life with Ethan was a dream. High school sweethearts, married five years, he was a charismatic tech mogul, and I loved him deeply. Then, I got pregnant, and he seemed absolutely over the moon, especially when we learned it was twins. That dream shattered when I overheard a hushed conversation between Ethan and our fancy OB-GYN. He was demanding an early C-section for me-not for my health, but to align with his mistress Chloe's due date. The "twins" he cried tears of joy over? One was hers, a sickening ploy to pass off her baby as ours for a crucial inheritance. My world tilted on its axis as I discovered I was only carrying one healthy baby. His tearful joy, his endless doting-every cherished moment was a well-rehearsed performance. When I fled, he staged a massive "missing person" search, dragging me back to his hospital while still talking about our "high-risk twins" to control me. Then, on our wedding anniversary, I found him with Chloe, kissing her passionately, planning their wedding right there in the hospital wing he always steered me away from. How could the man I'd loved for a decade be such a monstrous deceiver, using my body, my pregnancy, and my life as pawns in his twisted game? The hypocrisy burned, the casual cruelty a punch to the gut. Everyone around him, even our doctor, was complicit in this horrifying web of lies. But as I watched his humiliating, live-streamed "wedding" to his mistress from my hospital bed, my heartbreak hardened into icy resolve. I finally understood the extent of his betrayal, and that very realization ignited a fierce determination within me. I signed the divorce papers, ready to escape this gilded cage and fight for my freedom and my child's future, no matter the cost.