3. FRUITS OF OUR LABOR

DEREK

I stood over Vivian's unconscious body, her head bleeding onto our expensive persian rug. Claire hovered behind me, chewing her bottom lip. It was a nervous habit that usually irritated me but today just makes her look concerned, which was good. We'd need that for the hospital.

"Should we call an ambulance?" Claire asked.

"Obviously." I pulled out my phone, already composing my worried-husband expression. "But let me check something first."

I knelt beside Vivian, pressing two fingers to her neck. Strong pulse.

"Is she okay?"

"She's breathing. But we need to make this look right." I glanced up at her. "You pushed her."

"It was an accident! She was going to leave-"

"I know. But we need our stories straight. You weren't here. You left right before she got home. I was downstairs when I heard a crash. Understood?"

She nodded, already grabbing her purse. "I'll go out the back."

"Wait." I caught her arm and pulled her in for a quick kiss. "This doesn't change anything. We're still together, and we are close to winning this together."

Once she left, I looked down at Vivian again. Blood pooled beneath her head, matting her dark hair. She looked innocent as always. That's what made her so easy to manipulate.

I met Vivian Lancaster five years ago at a company event. She was twenty-four, beautiful, and recently disowned by her grandfather for "thinking too independently."

Harold Lancaster wanted her to marry within their social circle. Vivian wanted to choose her own husband.

Enter me: Derek Morrison, junior analyst, ambitious, charismatic, and completely wrong for a Lancaster heiress.

I pursued her carefully. Flowers, thoughtful gifts, long conversations about her dreams. I listened to every word about how much she wanted to prove herself to her grandfather, how much she wanted to run Lancaster Industries someday.

And when she finally said yes to dinner, I knew I'd won.

The sex was good enough. The companionship was bearable. But what really excited me was the Lancaster name and fortune.

I married her six months later in a small ceremony that Harold refused to attend. Vivian cried, but I held her and promised we'd prove them all wrong together.

What she didn't know: I'd been with Claire since high school. Claire Chen was old money fallen on hard times. Her family lost everything in a shipping scandal ten years ago. She went from debutante to barely scraping by.

Claire and I never broke up when I started pursuing Vivian. Why would we? Vivian was the means to an end. Claire was the end.

The plan was simple. Marry Vivian, get access to Lancaster Industries, use that access to build my own reputation, divorce her when the time was right, then marry my one true love.

Five years of planning on both sides, and it was ecstatic just how close we were to reaping the fruits of our labor.

I called 911 now, putting panic into my voice.

"My wife fell! She's seven months pregnant and she's bleeding from her head. Please hurry!"

The ambulance arrived in eight minutes. At the hospital, they rushed her to emergency. The babies' heartbeats were strong. Her vital signs were stable.

But she didn't wake up.

"Head trauma," the doctor explained. "We've done a CT scan. No skull fracture, but significant concussion. She may wake up in a few hours or a few days. We'll monitor her closely."

"And the babies?"

"Perfectly fine. Your wife's body protected them."

Of course it did. Vivian has always been resilient. One of the things that made her so useful.

I sat in her hospital room, watching her sleep. At midnight she finally woke up.

When she looked at me, I made sure I had tears in my eyes.

“Vivian,” I squeezed her hand lightly. “Thank God. I was so worried.”

She flinched, pulling her hand away as if I'd scalded her.

‘Shit!’

Then her brow furrowed, those familiar amber irises fixed on me.

“Who are you? Who am I?” Her voice was a dry rasp.

My chest tightened.

“This is a trick,” I thought. She's trying to make me think she lost her memory.

But when I looked at her eyes again, I saw the vast canvas of confusion. A slow burn of satisfaction lit inside me.

Game over.