Chapter 2My Sister In Law Is His Ex

Simon didn't come home for three days.

Instead, my phone was a constant barrage of texts. I’m so sorry. I shouldn't have said that about your family. I was just scared. I love you, Chloe. Let’s talk when I get back from the clinic with Lydia.

I stared at the screen, feeling nothing but a dull, hollow ache. I didn't care when he came back. I just wanted him to sign the papers.

But life has a cruel sense of timing. In the midst of the wreckage, I found out I was pregnant.

I grew up in the foster system. I spent my childhood longing for someone who belonged to me, someone who shared my blood. That longing was why I’d tried so hard with Simon. For three years, we’d been trying. I’d gone to every specialist, swallowed every bitter herbal supplement, endured countless injections and acupuncture sessions. Every month was a new heartbreak.

And now, when my world was burning down, the miracle finally happened.

I was standing in the hospital hallway, staring at the ultrasound photo with a mix of joy and absolute terror, when I heard a familiar voice around the corner.

It was Simon. He was carefully guiding Lydia toward the exit.

I moved to follow them, wanting to confront him, but I stopped dead just outside the waiting area.

"If she really goes through with the divorce," Lydia whispered, her voice sounding perfectly fine, "will you let her go?"

There was a long silence. Finally, Simon spoke. "I won't let her divorce me. She’s my wife. I’ll make it up to her. I’ll buy her whatever she wants. She’ll stay."

I leaned against the cold tile wall, a bitter smile touching my lips. His wife. He still remembered the title, at least.

Then Simon’s voice dropped lower. "Besides, I’ve stopped the medication."

Medication? My heart skipped a beat. What medication?

Lydia’s voice sharpened with irritation. "What? Are you blaming me now? You agreed to it when you realized I couldn't have kids. You said you couldn't bear to see her pregnant if I couldn't be."

The world tilted on its axis. I felt like the floor had been pulled out from under me.

Three years of infertility. Three years of blaming my own body, of feeling broken and "less than." It wasn't my body. It was Lydia. She had been drugging me. And Simon... Simon knew.

"I’m not blaming you," Simon said quickly, his voice frantic with the need to soothe her. "I understand why you did it. I know how much it hurt you to see her trying. But we’ve been married for years. We need an heir... a child to take care of us."

Then came the final blow.

"And besides," Simon added, "the kid will call you 'Auntie.' They’ll be there to look after you when we’re old. It’s the least she can provide for us."

A "compensation." My child—the person I had prayed for—was nothing more than an insurance policy for his ex-wife. I wasn't a partner; I was a surrogate they had tricked into their twisted domestic arrangement.

The nausea hit me like a physical wave. I barely made it to the restroom before I was violently ill. I stayed there for a long time, gripping the edges of the sink, watching the physiological tears stream down my face.

When I finally stood up, I didn't call Simon. I walked back to the reception desk and made a different kind of appointment.