He Hid His Secret Wife So I Stole His Sister's Boyfriend cover

SnackNovel

He Hid His Secret Wife So I Stole His Sister's Boyfriend

The ultrasound technician at the underfunded public clinic told me my baby was measuring small.

Clutching the crumpled cash I had saved from freelance transcription gigs, I took two buses across the city to a premium private hospital for a second opinion. I took a wrong turn on the fourth floor, wandering into the VIP maternity wing.

That was where I saw my fiancé, Cyrus. The man who was supposed to be doing a double shift delivering food on his bicycle.

He was sitting in a plush leather armchair in a sprawling suite, carefully cradling a newborn. His eyes were soft, brimming with a tenderness I hadn't seen in years.

"Hey there, little guy," he whispered. "I'm your dad. And there's your beautiful mom."

The woman resting in the electronic hospital bed was radiant. Her hair was perfectly blown out, her silk pajamas gleaming under the warm ambient light.

Surrounding the bed were Cyrus’s parents and his younger sister, Beatrix. They were fawning over the woman.

"Daphne is our absolute hero," Cyrus’s mother cooed, wiping a tear. "She gave us the first grandson of our bloodline."

I stood frozen in the hallway, completely hidden by the sheer volume of floral arrangements lining the corridor outside the suite. There were at least twenty-five massive, extravagant bouquets.

I recognized the names on the attached cards.

There were our mutual friends from college. Our former alumni. My old roommates.

And Beatrix’s boyfriend, Alaric—the notoriously wealthy heir to the city's largest real estate empire.

I leaned against the cool wall, my mind spinning. I typed a frantic query into my phone, asking an AI assistant what to do. The screen illuminated with clinical advice: Leave him. Focus on your child's wellbeing. Seek legal counsel.

Leave him? I was twenty-eight years old and three months pregnant.

I dismissed the digital advice and forced my brain to process the immediate, glaring discrepancy: How did Cyrus have this kind of money?

We had been together since high school. We survived on instant ramen. His family was so broke that Beatrix had to drop out of community college to work in a salon. My parents, before they passed away, had even offered to pay for her tuition, but her pride wouldn't allow it.

After graduation, Cyrus and I rented a decaying fourth-floor walk-up in the industrial district. He told me he was a low-level tech support worker making four thousand a month. He worked weekends delivering food to scrape together an extra thousand. He sent money to his parents, paid Beatrix’s rent, paid our bills, and left us with almost nothing. We shared a single space heater. I wore his oversized, faded t-shirts as maternity wear.

How was he suddenly rich?

A quick internet search of his full name yielded a Forbes profile from two years ago. Cyrus had founded an AI logistics startup. He was a tech millionaire.

Yet, to save money, I was growing tomatoes in plastic bottles on our fire escape. I was skipping meals so I could afford prenatal vitamins.

And Daphne? She was recovering in a suite that cost ten thousand dollars a night.

My phone vibrated with another AI notification. Because Cyrus and I were only engaged and not legally married, I had no claim to his assets. If I left now, with his high-priced lawyers, I would get the bare minimum in child support.

A cold, primal instinct washed over me. I wasn't just a betrayed woman; I was a mother with a vulnerable child in my womb. I had to survive.

If I played dumb and waited until we were legally married, things would change. Or, at the very least, I could manipulate him into buying me a house before I walked away.

I slipped out of the VIP wing, found a quiet corner in the lobby, and dialed his number.

"Hey," I said, keeping my voice light. "Are you still out on deliveries? You must be exhausted."

His voice came through the receiver, smooth and reassuring. "I have to hustle, babe. I want to give you and our baby a better life. It’s not too bad, just a lot of stairs."

I swallowed the bile rising in my throat. "I tripped on our stairs today. I just left the clinic."

The panic in his voice was immediate and visceral. "What? Are you okay? Is the baby okay? Elowen, I swear, once I get this promotion, I’m getting us a ground-floor apartment."

Hearing his familiar, comforting lies solidified the ice in my veins.

"I'm just getting heavier," I murmured. "And you're not here."

He sighed, a masterful performance of a weary provider. "I'm sorry, Elowen. You know I have to be on this business trip for the next five months to secure my bonus. It’s an extra ten thousand dollars. I’m going to use it to hire a postpartum nurse for you."

"Are we going to raise our baby in this neighborhood?" I asked, pushing him.

"We came from nothing," he replied gently. "There's no shame in our hustle. But I promise you, I'll get us out of here. We’ll live like the people on television."

I hung up. He was right. He was already living like the people on television. Just not with me.