Men cruelty

SERENA POV

Baby?"

The word left my lips as a fragile, pathetic squeak.

Avery’s hand glided over her silk robe, cupping her abdomen in a gesture so full of quiet pride it felt like a physical slap across my face. She didn’t look at me. She kept her eyes fixed entirely on the man standing over me.

"Yes, darling," Avery crooned, her voice thick with exaggerated softness. "Our baby is restless tonight. Please come back to bed."

I looked up at Jackson, desperate to catch even a fraction of a slip in his composure. Was she pregnant? Was it Jackson's? Or was it Jaden's?

If Avery was carrying Jackson’s child, it meant my husband hadn’t just rejected me, he had betrayed me in the most ultimate, unforgivable way imaginable. But if it was Jaden’s baby, then why was Jackson so eager to step into his dead twin’s shoes, play father to another man's child, and look at me with such icy, unfeeling detachment?

A terrifying, dark wave of self-doubt washed over me. The hallway felt like it was spinning. Was I truly losing my mind? Was the grief twisting my memory, making me hallucinate scars and invent wild conspiracies out of pure desperation? Maybe Jackson really was dead. Maybe he was laying in some cold, dark morgue right now, and I was losing my sanity over a ghost.

Jackson didn’t answer my frantic, wide-eyed stare. He simply stepped past my crumpled form on the floor, gently resting a hand on Avery’s waist.

"I'm coming, sweetheart," he murmured to her. He didn't offer me a second glance as he led her down the long, dim corridor, leaving me shivering alone on the cold parquet floor.

I didn't sleep that night. I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the dark walls as the doubts clawed at my chest. By the time the gray morning light filtered through the heavy curtains, I was exhausted, hollowed out, and desperate for anything, any tiny thread of sanity, to hold onto.

Unable to sit still, I wandered down to the main floor around seven in the morning. The grand estate was quiet, save for the rhythmic, muted sounds of the household staff beginning their morning chores.

As I rounded the corner toward the laundry wing, I nearly collided with Martha, one of the senior housekeepers. She jumped, startled, clutching a heavy black garment bag tightly against her chest.

"Oh! Mrs. Serena!" Martha gasped, placing a hand over her heart. "You scared me. Goodness, you look so pale. Should I bring you some breakfast?"

"I'm fine, Martha," I said, my voice hoarse. My eyes drifted down to the garment bag in her arms. A tailored sleeve was hanging slightly out of the zipper. The rich, charcoal-gray wool was unmistakable. "What is that?"

"Oh, this?" Martha lifted the bag slightly. "It’s just Mr. Jaden’s suit for the memorial service. I was taking it down to the driver to run over to the tailor in town."

My chest tightened. "A suit for Jaden? Why does it need a tailor? Jackson always told me how Jaden loves his clothes custom-made in London."

Martha hesitated, shifting her weight awkwardly from foot to foot. She looked around the hallway, as if checking to make sure we were completely alone, before leaning in slightly.

"Well... between you and me, ma'am, it’s a bit unusual," Martha whispered, frowning. "Sir Jaden called me into his dressing room early this morning. He handed me three of Mr. Jackson’s old bespoke suits—including this grey one right here. He told me to send them to his personal tailor immediately to have the shoulders let out and the chest broadened."

My heart did a violent, erratic thud against my ribs. "He asked to alter Jackson's suits?"

"Yes, ma'am," Martha nodded, clearly puzzled herself. "I mentioned to him that Mr. Jackson had broader shoulders and a wider frame than him, and that it might be easier to just buy new ones. But Mr. Jaden got quite stern with me. He said he wanted these exact suits adjusted to fit him perfectly by tomorrow."

I reached out with a trembling hand and pulled back the zipper of the garment bag just an inch. There, sewn neatly inside the inner lining on a silk tag, were the embroidered initials: J.A.V. — Jackson Alexander Vance.

It was Jackson’s favorite jacket. I had seen him wear it a dozen times to board meetings.

Why would Jaden, a man who prided himself on his tailored, slim-fit Italian fashion, suddenly want to alter his dead brother’s broader, heavier suits to fit his own frame?

He wasn't Jaden trying to fit into Jackson's clothes. He was Jackson, trying to adjust his own wardrobe to match the subtle differences of his twin's body so no one would notice the subtle shift when he wore them.

The fog of doubt that had suffocated me all night instantly vanished, replaced by a cold, burning rage. I wasn't crazy. I wasn't delusional.

"Thank you, Martha," I said, keeping my voice steady with every ounce of willpower I had left. "Please, take it to the driver."

"Of course, Mrs. Serena."

As Martha walked away, the adrenaline surged through my veins. I needed physical proof. Words weren't going to break his mask, and my crying certainly wouldn't stop his cruel game. I needed something black and white.

I walked directly toward Jackson’s private study at the end of the east wing. The heavy oak door was locked, as it always was, but I knew where he kept the spare key. Five years of being a dutiful, ignored wife meant I knew every corner of this house better than anyone. I reached up, feeling along the top ledge of the grand doorframe, until my fingers brushed against the small metallic brass key.

I unlocked the door, stepped inside, and shut it silently behind me.

The study smelled of cedar, old paper, and Jackson’s signature sandalwood cologne. It felt like walking into a trap, but I couldn't stop now. I hurried over to his massive mahogany desk and began pulling open drawers, frantically sifting through stacks of financial reports, corporate contracts, and bank statements.

Nothing. Everything looked completely normal.

Frustration bubbled up in my throat. I sat in his leather chair, my hands shaking as I searched the underside of the desk. My fingers snagged on a small, hidden release latch tucked near the right knee-well.

Click.

A narrow, concealed drawer popped open from the side of the desk with a soft hiss.

My breath hitched. Inside the hidden compartment lay a single, crisp white legal folder.

I pulled it out, my pulse hammering in my ears like a war drum. I flipped the cover open.

Laying right at the top of the stack was an official, fully executed legal document. The bold, dark header at the top of the page seemed to scream at me in the quiet room:

VOLUNTARY DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE AND SETTLEMENT AGREEMENT

My eyes scanned down the page, landing heavily on the names printed in stark, unfeeling type:

PETITIONER: Jackson Alexander Vance

RESPONDENT: Serena Mae Vance

My hands shook so violently the paper rattled. Attached to the back of the agreement was a second document—a binding power of attorney, transferring all of Jackson’s personal estate and assets directly to Avery, dated two weeks before the car crash.