32 Weeks Pregnant, I Watched My Husband Bring His Mistress to Christmas—Then I Said, “Since You Brought Someone, I Brought Someone Too.”

The reception continued around us like a masquerade on a sinking ship. A string quartet played a delicate arrangement of Vivaldi near the twelve-foot balsam fir, while waiters in starched white waistcoats carried silver trays of caviar and vintage port through the crowd.

Fiona Vale had slipped away from Matthias's side the moment the police entered the foyer. I watched her glide through the crowd toward the east wing, her ivory silk trailing behind her, one hand clutching her phone tightly to her ear. She was whispering into the receiver, her steps hurried, her poise fracturing beneath the chandelier glow.

Matthias grabbed my elbow, his grip bruising through the velvet of my sleeve.

"Upstairs. Now," he snarled under his breath.

"Touch me again, Matthias, and I’ll scream," I said, not raising my voice by a single decibel. "I’ll scream that my water broke, and forty-five of your father's wealthiest donors will crowd around us. Would you like Sean Mercer to search your coat pockets in front of the CEO of Hensley Capital?"

He released me as if burned, pulling his hand back and smoothing his tuxedo lapel. "You're delusional, Serena. The pregnancy hormones—you’re paranoid. I made a mistake with Fiona. It was a lapse in judgment. An affair. That’s all it was! Men make mistakes!"

"An affair doesn't involve tactical blueprints of your family's estate hidden in a locked safe beneath our nursery," I replied coldly. "An affair doesn't involve you liquidating three trust accounts into an untraceable shell corporation registered in the Cayman Islands under Fiona’s maiden name."

Matthias's throat worked, but no words came out.

"I was a triage nurse during mass casualty drills, Matthias," I whispered, stepping so close I could smell the expensive scotch on his breath mixed with the cheap floral perfume Fiona wore. "I know how people behave when they’re planning a catastrophe. You haven't slept in three weeks. You bought an eight-carat diamond choker for a woman you claim is just a communications consultant. And tonight, you made sure your sixty-eight-year-old father, who suffers from Parkinson’s and cannot walk without a cane, was seated in the private library directly above the east basement."

"Serena—"

"Where are the keys to the boiler room?" I demanded.

Before he could answer, the heavy voice of Charles Dre boomed through the hall.

"Matthias! Serena! There you are!"

My father-in-law approached, leaning heavily on his silver-tipped walnut cane. His white hair was neatly combed, his eyes tired but filled with genuine warmth as he looked at my stomach. Behind him, several board members followed, chuckling at an earlier remark.

"Charles," I smiled warmly, stepping forward to embrace the frail old man, shielding him instinctively with my body.

"Look at you, my dear," Charles said softly, patting my hand. "Radiant. Thirty-two weeks already? I remember when Matthias’s mother was carrying him... the house felt alive. Thank you for coming tonight, Serena. I know the drive in the blizzard wasn't easy."

"I wouldn't miss it for the world, Charles," I said, glancing sideways at Matthias. "This is a night none of us will ever forget."

Matthias forced a stiff, agonizing grin onto his face. "Father... perhaps you should sit down. The crowd is getting thick."

"Nonsense! Tonight we celebrate the Hensley merger!" Charles laughed, waving his hand. But as he turned to speak to an associate, a sudden metallic clink echoed from the air vent behind us.

It was faint, drowned out by the cellos, but to my ears, it sounded like a hammer striking an anvil.

And beneath the scent of pine needles, roasted chestnuts, and expensive perfume, a sharp, bitter chemical odor began to seep through the brass grates.

*Commercial solvent.*

My blood ran cold. The plan wasn't scheduled for midnight after the party ended.