I Stole My Wife’s Secret Son,After She Killed Our Baby

I paused, savoring the way his face drained of color, then twisted the knife one final time. "Remember this—your child was miscarried. Do you understand?" I barely breathed the word miscarried, yet it cut through me like shattered glass. "No!" Nathaniel seized the vase from the nightstand and hurled it at my head. "You're lying! That's my child! Mine!" Serena appeared in the doorway, her expression strained. "Rena, you can't let him take our baby!" Nathaniel turned to her, desperate. The word our scraped across my eardrums like a blade. Serena's gaze shifted to me, conflicted. "Otis..." I leaned close to her ear and murmured, "The East River development site. Your grandfather has his heart set on it. And it just so happens to be in the hands of a very good friend of mine." Her body went rigid. That land was the cornerstone of the Ashford family's strategy for the next decade—and the key to proving her worth to Old Mr. Abbott. She whipped around to face me. Fury. Resentment. And beneath it all, a flicker of fear. She drew a slow breath, then turned to Nathaniel. "The child... stays with Otis. It's the only way to make this legitimate." I addressed my assistant without looking back. "Mason Grant. Bring the boy to my car." I walked out of the hospital room and dialed another number. "Handle every loose end." "I need a medical certificate confirming my wife Serena Abbott suffered an accidental miscarriage. And I need a new birth certificate for the child—mother's name: Serena Abbott. Father's name: Otis Wiley. No one else." Behind me, the room erupted—crashing furniture, screaming, and Nathaniel's raw, guttural howls tearing through the corridor. I looked down at the boy who'd been forced into my car. He stared back at me with eyes exactly like Serena's—wide with fear, sharp with hatred. My lips curved into a smile that held no warmth at all. Serena was discharged soon after. Her body came home. Her heart stayed with Nathaniel. Her phone screen glowed constantly—message after message from that man. Rena, I miss Evan so much. Can't you make him give our baby back? I don't want anything else. I just want our child. Rena, I can't go on. His people shoved me that day—I hit my head. The doctor says I have a concussion. Am I going to die? The pretty boy knew exactly how to play her. He never attacked me directly. Instead, he painted himself as the suffering victim, pining for his stolen child—making me look like the monster, the heartless villain. Every time she read his messages, the crease between her brows deepened. Then she'd invent some excuse and slip away. One morning, Serena was gone. The boy was locked in his room. And Nathaniel appeared at my doorstep like a ghost, his eyes venomous. "Don't think you've won, Otis." "That unlucky child of yours? I'm the one who made Rena get rid of it." "That night, she'd been drinking. She kept calling me, over and over." "All I did was mention that your baby would become an obstacle for me someday." "I told her to spend more time with me." "I never expected her to hang up and book the procedure right then. After that, well..." "Your child is gone because you couldn't hold onto it. Don't blame anyone else." "You're just raising my son for me. Don't celebrate too soon." He smirked, satisfied with himself, and turned to leave. Every word seared into me like a red-hot brand. So that's how it happened. I closed my eyes. My hands trembled at my sides, fingernails digging into my palms until the taste of iron flooded my mouth.

Drops of blood slid down my palm and splattered onto the pristine white carpet, blooming like crimson plum blossoms—beautiful and brutal. That's when Serena came back. She saw the blood on my hand and froze for a second before rushing forward to grab my wrist. "What's wrong with you? Have you lost your mind again?" She pulled out the first-aid kit, ready to bandage my hand. Her brow furrowed, and for a moment, there was something almost like genuine concern in her expression. My whole body trembled. I wanted to scream. I wanted to demand answers. I wanted to lunge at her and tear her apart. But I had no strength left. "Just go," I said. "Go be with Nathaniel." "I don't need you here." Her phone rang. Nathaniel, no doubt, playing the victim again. Without a moment's hesitation, Serena answered and hurried out the door. I called Mason and told him to bring the car around. "Take me to the estate." Time to collect what was mine. When I appeared at the gates of the Wiley estate with the child in my arms, the entire family erupted. Grandparents on both sides. Uncles. Aunts. Everyone swarmed around us. "Oh, my precious great-grandson!" Grandmother carefully lifted the boy from my arms, her face splitting into the widest smile I'd seen in years. "This child is... from when you two went abroad? That year you stayed overseas?" Grandfather was so overcome that his hands shook. He looked at me with eyes brimming with pride and approval. "You had a baby behind our backs! And kept him hidden for three whole years!" I explained that the child had been sickly, requiring treatment abroad. We'd kept it quiet until he was healthy enough to bring home. No one questioned the story. No one knew that my heart had already died—back in that cold, sterile hospital room, alongside the child who never drew breath. Grandfather glanced at the empty doorway, confused. "Where's Serena?" "Busy, I suppose." I kept my voice light, indifferent. "Haven't seen much of her lately." The rewards the elders heaped upon me were staggering. Grandmother brought out her most treasured possessions—the jade signet ring she'd kept locked away for decades, antique calligraphy scrolls, paintings worth small fortunes. One piece after another, each priceless. Grandfather transferred five percent of Wiley Group's shares directly into my name, making me the youngest member of the board overnight. I smiled and accepted everything. All of it was mine by right. Paid for with my child's life. No one knew that in the deepest corner of my walk-in closet, I had carved out a small, hidden space. There were no expensive watches there. No designer suits. Just a tiny memorial tablet, carved from red sandalwood. No name was inscribed on it. Before the tablet sat a wooden rattle drum I'd bought with my own hands—a gift I would never get to give. Beside it lay a few pitifully small baby clothes. Every night, when the house fell silent, I would lock myself inside that closet. I would hold that small wooden tablet and run my fingers over it, again and again. Baby, Daddy's here. Baby, Grandma and Grandpa bought so many toys today. If you were here, you'd have them too. Baby, do you blame Daddy? Daddy was useless. Daddy couldn't protect— I never cried aloud. I just let the tears fall in silence, soaking into the wood I clutched against my chest. There was a hole where my heart used to be. A wound that would never heal. Cold wind howled through it endlessly, and the pain made it impossible to breathe. That was my secret. Mine, and my lost child's. Serena came back to the estate too, but she didn't dare come near me. In front of the entire family, Grandfather pointed his cane at her and berated her publicly. Her husband and child had come home, and she couldn't even bother to show her face. She was ordered to kneel in the family shrine for the entire night. She probably couldn't understand it—how the Otis Wiley who once loved her desperately, who let her wrap him around her finger, had suddenly become this.

She came to the bedroom occasionally to keep me company, but more often, she went to see the child. She would hold him, tell him stories, her eyes softening with something foreign—something that looked like maternal love. One evening, she stood behind me as I sat at the vanity. The silence stretched between us until she finally spoke. "Otis, about the miscarriage... I was wrong. I just wasn't ready." A pause. Then she added, "Nathaniel—he's just too dependent on me. Don't hold it against him." I lifted my gaze slowly, meeting her reflection in the mirror. She looked radiant. I looked hollow. "Hold it against him?" A dry laugh escaped me. "What right do I have to hold anything against anyone? I couldn't even protect my own child." Her face twisted as if I'd slapped her. "It was an accident!" Her voice pitched higher. "Why do you keep dragging this up? I've been trying to make it up to you!" Make it up to me. Money was the most useless thing she could offer. I had no desire to argue. I rose and guided her toward the door. "Otis, what do you want from me?" "What do I want?" I looked at her, my tone cutting. "I want you to stay away from me." She slammed the door on her way out. After that night, she rarely set foot in my room again. The fragile pretense between us—thin as a cicada's wing—we no longer bothered to maintain. On the child's hundred-day celebration, the Wiley family hosted a banquet of extraordinary grandeur. The estate's sprawling lawn had been transformed into an elegant venue. Crystal chandeliers hung from white canopy tents. Every notable figure in the city had gathered—old money, new money, politicians, celebrities—all come to pay their respects. I wore a tailored white suit, the child cradled in my arms, standing beside my grandparents as guests offered their congratulations and thinly veiled envy. Grandfather had named the boy Evan—a wish for a peaceful, untroubled life. For me, the name carried a private meaning: a memorial to the child I had lost. Halfway through the banquet, Grandfather made his way to the stage, cane tapping against the polished floor. He took the microphone. The crowd fell silent. "Today, on the occasion of my great-grandson Evan's hundred-day celebration, I have an announcement." His voice rang out, commanding and clear despite his age. "The Ashford Group has established a new subsidiary specializing in artificial intelligence. Current projections place its market value at one hundred billion dollars." He paused, letting the figure sink in. "Today, I am giving this company to Otis Wiley." Applause erupted like thunder. I held Evan close and offered a slight bow, a practiced smile on my face. The crowd's gasps and murmurs washed over me—awe, jealousy, disbelief. A hundred-billion-dollar company, handed over like a birthday gift. The sheer magnitude of it. I was about to step onto the stage to express my gratitude when— The banquet hall doors burst open. A man in a white suit shoved past the security guards, wild-eyed, charging toward the stage like a man possessed. Nathaniel. He pushed through the crowd, making a beeline for me. Behind him, Serena followed, her face ashen. "Wait!"

The room froze. Every head turned. Serena rushed forward, grabbing at his arm. "Nathaniel! What are you doing here? Stop this!" He shook her off violently. His eyes—bloodshot, feral—locked onto mine. In his raised hand, he clutched a document. "I'm causing a scene?" His voice cracked, shrill and desperate. "Serena, look at him!" He jabbed a finger in my direction. "He's holding my child! Basking in glory that should be mine! He's the one who should be stopped!" A broken laugh tore from his throat. He reached into his bag and pulled out a folder, holding it high above his head. "I'm going to show everyone here exactly how the Abbott family treats people!" He charged onto the stage and ripped the microphone from the emcee's hands. "Take a good look! This is a paternity test!" His voice blasted through the speakers, reaching every corner of the venue. "It says right here—black and white—Evan Abbott and I share 99.9% DNA compatibility!" "I'm his biological father!" The room erupted. Every eye in the place swung toward me like searchlights locking onto a target. Suspicion. Contempt. Barely concealed glee. Old Mr. Abbott's face turned to stone, his gaze boring into me with silent accusation. Serena rushed the stage, trying to snatch the report from Nathaniel's hands while cooing at him in that placating voice of hers. "Stop this. Let's go home and talk about it, okay?" Nathaniel didn't even glance at her. His eyes were bloodshot, fixed on me with pure hatred. "Otis Wiley! You thief! You stole my child and now you're standing here playing the victim? You're shameless!" He jabbed his finger at me, his voice cracking from the force of his accusations. The venue descended into chaos. Serena lunged to clamp her hand over his mouth, but he shoved her away hard. "Serena, you only have one choice now—divorce him and be with me!" My assistant appeared silently at my side. He set an antique black lacquered wooden chest at my feet. I drew a slow breath and walked toward the stage. I took the paternity report from Nathaniel's hands. Didn't bother looking at it. Then I lifted the microphone and surveyed the sea of faces below—shocked, hungry, waiting. "He's right." I said it plainly, a ghost of a smile on my lips. "Everything he said is true." The chaos peaked. That's when Mason stepped onto the stage, placing a heavy sandalwood box in my hands. I opened it. Faced the microphone. Looked out at all those stunned expressions. "Please. Bear with me a moment." "Because today, I have a surprise of my own."