4

Opal

Four weeks passed in a haze of gray, crushing reality.

The divorce went through with brutal speed. When you have a team of top-tier lawyers backed by billions of dollars, a marriage can be dissolved in less time than it takes to build one. Just like that, the legal bond binding me to Graham Morrison was erased. I was no longer his wife. I was just another headline that had faded from the top of the news stack.

But while the legal battle ended, the aftermath threatened to swallow me whole.

The scandal had utterly demolished my reputation. In the eyes of high society and the public, I was the ultimate villain—a penniless girl who had married a handsome billionaire, only to betray him with another man in hotel rooms. People who had smiled at me at charity galas, women who had called themselves my friends while sipping champagne in my living room, suddenly didn't know my name. They crossed the street when they saw me coming or looked right through me as if I were made of glass.

My small interior design consulting business collapsed overnight. Clients cancelled contracts with vague, hurried excuses. Suppliers suddenly couldn't fulfill my orders. No one wanted to be associated with Graham Morrison’s "cheating ex-wife."

To make matters worse, the paparazzi were relentless. They staked out the small, one-bedroom apartment I was renting on the far side of town. Flashbulbs went off every time I stepped outside to buy groceries or walk to the pharmacy. They wanted a picture of my fall from grace—a shot of the disgraced Mrs. Morrison looking broken.

I stood by the window of my tiny apartment, looking out at the gray city skyline. My morning sickness had intensified, and my waistline was just beginning to thicken, though my loose sweaters still hid it well. Every morning, I woke up with a hollow ache in my chest, only to feel the gentle, rhythmic reassurance inside me—three tiny lives growing silently, completely reliant on me for survival.

Staying in this city was impossible. My children could never grow up here, hounded by photographers, burdened by a scandal built on lies, and labeled as the offspring of a disgraced woman.

A sharp knock at the door broke my train of thought. Maya stepped inside, carrying a folder of legal documents.

"Graham’s lawyers called again this morning," Maya said, her voice laced with frustration as she set the papers on my small kitchen table. "They’re practically begging you to take the five-million-dollar settlement, Opal. They say Graham insists on it. He wants the file closed cleanly."

"I don't want his money," I said quietly, pouring myself a glass of water. "I took what was mine before the wedding—my personal savings account and the few pieces of furniture my parents left me. That's all."

"Opal, you're carrying triplets!" Maya burst out, stepping closer and grabbing my hands. "Raising three babies on your own takes a fortune! You're going to be a single mother with no job, no family support, and a ruined reputation. Take the money! He owes you at least that much for destroying your life!"

"If I take his money, he will always have a leash on me," I answered, looking Maya straight in the eyes. "He'll think he paid me off. He'll think he bought my silence or made up for treating me like trash. I won't let him buy his way out of his guilt. My children don't need his money. They need a mother who has her dignity."

Maya sighed deeply, her eyes softening with worry. "You still love him, don't you?"

The question hit me like a physical blow. I looked away, swallowing the painful lump in my throat.

"Part of me does," I confessed, my voice barely a whisper. "I love the man I thought he was. I love the man who used to hold me when I had a bad dream, the man who swore he would always stand by me. But that man died the moment he looked at those fake pictures and chose to believe them over my word. I stood in front of him, begging him to trust me, and he looked at me like I disgusted him. I will never forget that look, Maya. Never."

I placed a hand gently over my lower stomach. "I refuse to bring my children into a world where their father looks at their mother with contempt. They deserve better."

What I didn't know was that while I was planning my escape, someone else was watching my every move.

In a high-rise office downtown, a phone screen lit up on a polished mahogany desk. A private operative had been keeping tabs on me ever since the divorce papers were signed, tracking my daily routine.

"She’s been visiting a discreet medical clinic on 4th Street," the operative reported through the speaker. "She went in twice this week. We couldn't get her records due to privacy protocols, but she was seen holding a printout from an ultrasound."

On the other end of the line, a shadow fell over a man's face. Panic spiked through his chest. Pregnant? If Opal was carrying Graham Morrison's child, the entire plan was in jeopardy. A baby would bind them together forever. Eventually, blood tests would be run, questions would be asked, and the carefully constructed web of lies would unravel.

An hour later, a notification chimed on my phone.

It was an unregistered number. I opened the message, my heart skipping a beat as I read the words displayed across the screen:

We know you're hiding something. Leave the city and never come back. If you stay, the press will be the least of your problems. Get out while you still can.

I stared at the text, my blood running cold.

Maya looked over my shoulder and gasped. "Opal, someone is threatening you! We need to go to the police! We need to tell Graham—"

"No!" I interrupted, clutching the phone tightly. "No police. And definitely not Graham."

Instead of terrifying me into staying and fighting, the message gave me a strange, icy clarity. Someone had gone to extraordinary lengths to frame me, destroy my marriage, and drive me out of Graham’s life. Whoever was behind this wasn't just trying to hurt me—they wanted me erased completely. If they found out about the triplets, my babies would never be safe.

Leaving wasn't just a choice anymore. It was a matter of survival.

"Pack the rest of the boxes," I told Maya, my voice remarkably steady. "We're leaving tonight."

By midnight, my old sedan was loaded with everything I owned in the world—a few suitcases, a box of personal mementos, and a small crib Maya had helped me buy.

I took the driver's seat, keying the ignition. The engine sputtered to life, echoing in the quiet night air. Maya hugged me tightly through the open window, her eyes brimming with tears.

"Call me the moment you cross the state line," Maya wept. "Promise me, Opal."

"I promise. Thank you for everything, Maya."

I pulled away from the curb, leaving my old life behind. But as I drove through the sleeping city, my hands involuntarily turned the steering wheel toward the residential district.

Ten minutes later, my car slowed down as I drove past the massive estate I had once called home. The iron gates were shut tight. High up on the second floor, a single light burned in the master bedroom window.

Graham was up. He was probably working, pouring himself into his business to fill the silence of the empty house.

For a fleeting, desperate second, my foot hovered over the brake pedal. Part of me wanted to tear open the car door, run up the driveway, beat my fists against the heavy oak doors, and scream the truth at him until he listened. I didn't cheat on you! I'm carrying your children! Three of them!

A tear slipped down my cheek, catching the dim dashboard light.

I looked up at that glowing window one last time. I remembered his cold, unyielding voice in the dining room. I remembered him handing me the divorce papers without a shred of mercy in his eyes.

I lifted my right hand from the steering wheel and placed it gently, protectively over my stomach.

"It's just us now," I whispered into the quiet dark of the car.

I pressed my foot onto the gas pedal. The sedan accelerated, its headlights cutting through the night as I left the mansion, the city, and Graham Morrison far behind in my rearview mirror.

A block away, hidden under the shadow of a streetlamp, a black SUV sat idling.

A man lifted a camera with a long telephoto lens, snapping a series of crisp photographs as my sedan crossed the city limits and disappeared onto the highway.

He tapped his phone, opening an encrypted messaging app, and attached the photo of my car driving away into the night. Beneath the image, he typed a brief, cold message:

“She’s gone. Just like we planned.”