I was eight months pregnant when my millionaire husband raised his hand again. “You’re nothing without me!” he sh0uted as the bl0ws kept coming

Daughter.

Not orphan. Not nobody. Not the weak little wife they mocked behind closed doors.

My father crossed the marble floor and stopped in front of Nathaniel.

“Ava Whitmore,” he said coldly. “My only child.”

Nathaniel stared at me as if my face had changed.

“Whitmore? You lied to me?”

I almost laughed.

“You chose me because your background check told you I had no one,” I said. “You thought no one would miss me if I disappeared. That was your mistake.”

Margaret recovered first.

“This is absurd,” she said, forcing a polite smile. “Ava is deeply unwell. Pregnancy has made her unstable. We were trying to get her help.”

My father’s lead attorney, Rebecca Cole, stepped forward and opened a black tablet.

“If she is unstable, Mrs. Mercer,” Rebecca said, “then please explain the eighty-seven hidden video and audio files from the past three weeks. Or the forged psychiatric evaluation with your signature. Or the custody petition prepared before the baby was even born. Or the recording of you telling your son not to leave marks on her face before the gala.”

Margaret’s smile disappeared.

Nathaniel lunged toward Rebecca, reaching for the tablet.