At seven months pregnant with twins, I thought my biggest worries would be swollen ankles and picking baby names. Instead, I found myself betrayed in the cruelest way possible—my husband’s boss sent me a picture of him in her bed, and hours later, the two of them offered me a house… in exchange for one of my babies. They thought I’d break. But what I had planned would destroy them both.
I was folding little onesies when my phone buzzed. It was Veronica, my husband’s boss. My heart skipped—I thought maybe something had happened to Eric at work. Instead, the photo she sent burned into my brain: Eric, shirtless in her bed, smirking. The caption twisted the knife: “He’s mine now.”
I called him again and again, but he ignored every attempt. By the time he came home, he wasn’t alone. Veronica waltzed in beside him like she owned my life—expensive clothes, confidence dripping from her every move. And then Eric delivered the words that shattered me: “I’m leaving you. I’m in love with Veronica.”
As if ripping my family apart wasn’t enough, Veronica crossed her arms and coldly declared, “Since this is Eric’s apartment, you’ll need to move out by the end of the week.” My stomach twisted, not just from the twins pressing inside me, but from the sheer audacity.
Then came the unthinkable: she offered me a house and financial security—but only if I handed over one of my babies. She said it so casually, like she was negotiating for furniture.
I wanted to scream, to throw them both out, but I forced myself to stay calm. Through fake tears, I whispered, “Fine. But I want to choose which baby you get.” Veronica smirked, certain she’d won. She had no idea she was walking into my trap.
Weeks later, they handed me the keys to a house—my house. They were too blinded by arrogance to notice I’d secured the deed in my name alone. Veronica visited often, cooing over my belly, thinking I was torn between my unborn daughters. All the while, I played the role of the desperate, defeated woman.
The night came—I went into labor. Hours of pain brought me the only light I needed: two perfect baby girls, Lily and Emma. When Veronica stormed into my home days later, demanding to know which baby was hers, I stood tall. “Neither,” I said.
Veronica’s smile froze. Eric tried to sneer, but I cut them both off. “This house is mine. The deed is in my name. And your little deal? It’s already on social media—the texts, the photos, the messages where you tried to buy my baby. The world knows exactly what you are.”
They scrambled—Veronica’s reputation crumbled overnight, investors cut ties, and Eric’s company fired him. Their betrayal made headlines for all the wrong reasons. And me? I rocked my daughters to sleep in our beautiful home, stronger than ever. I hadn’t just survived.
I had won.
