“I’m throwing a baby shower for my son’s mistress,” my mother-in-law smiled, handing me divorce papers and a $700,000 check. “You’re thirty-four and barren. Disappear.” I took the money, got on a plane to Paris—and quietly hired a PI.
Six months later, on the day her “twin heirs” were born, DNA results hit her desk. At seven a.m., my Paris doorbell rang. It was her, mascara smeared, whispering: “Caroline… name your price.”
The day my mother-in-law celebrated my husband’s mistress with a baby shower was the day my old life ended.
I remember the color of the tablecloths—pale blue, embroidered with tiny silver crowns. The smell of gardenias twisted together with the sugary scent of fondant icing. The way the chandelier light glittered off the crystal champagne flutes and the silver rattle that would haunt me for months.
I stood near the edge of the living room, clutching a glass of sparkling water I hadn’t taken a single sip from, trying to stay invisible. I wore the dress Eleanor had picked out for me—a soft cream sheath that made me feel like an extra in a movie about someone else’s life. The Mitchell mansion was bursting with people: Houston’s finest, polished and perfumed, dripping diamonds and gossip.
But the star of the show wasn’t me. It was the woman sitting in the center of the room in a pale blue dress that clung lovingly to her eight-month belly. Her blond hair fell in soft waves, makeup flawless and glowing with that particular smugness that says, I’ve already won, and you’re just here to watch.
Amber Lawson. Twenty-eight. Event coordinator.
The woman my husband had gotten pregnant with twins. The woman my mother-in-law had decided to crown as savior of the Mitchell bloodline. “Everyone, everyone, please,” Eleanor said, tapping her spoon against a crystal flute.
The room hushed instantly. That’s the kind of power Eleanor Mitchell commanded—one tiny sound, and Houston high society leaned in to listen. She stood by the fireplace, her silver hair swept into an elegant chignon, pearls glowing at her throat, eyes bright with triumph.
She looked radiant, decades younger, like having those babies in the room—even still in utero—had reverse-aged her. “These past few years have been… challenging,” she began, letting her gaze sweep the room, catching every sympathetic face. “As many of you know, my son Derek and his lovely wife, Caroline”—her eyes flicked toward me, her smile tight—”have struggled to expand our family.”
The air shifted.
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