Eight months pregnant with our miracle baby, my husband brought his 22-year-old mistress to our baby shower. When I demanded they leave, he sneered that she carried the “real heir” while his parents applauded. Lying on the floor, I smiled through the pain. They didn’t know the FBI raid I’d arranged was set for 2:00 PM.

Part 1
At 1:59 p.m., I was lying on the floor in the middle of my own baby shower, with cake frosting smeared across my dress and the taste of blood and sugar in my mouth. My husband stood above me with his mistress holding his arm, smiling as if hum:ili:ating me in front of everyone had made him victorious.

Only seconds earlier, I had been standing beside the gift table in a pale blue dress, eight months pregnant with the child doctors once said I would never be able to carry. Then Daniel’s hand struck me, pain shot through my body, and I fell backward into silver balloons, wrapped presents, and a tower of cupcakes that spelled out WELCOME, LITTLE ONE.

“Daniel,” I gasped, clutching my stomach. “You hi:t me.”

He calmly straightened his cufflinks.

“You embarrassed me.”