Chapter 1: The Breaking News

The heir to the Hartman family fortune, Jason Hartman, was suddenly exposed for being secretly married and having a daughter.

The news was everywhere—his chiseled face, that perfect navy suit, and the Hartman name scrolling across the bottom of every screen. Phones buzzed, social media exploded, and in Westchester, Jason’s name was on everyone’s lips, whispered over half-empty lattes and overheard at every café counter.

He went on air right away to set the record straight.

“There’s no secret marriage, and I don’t have a daughter. My personal life’s always been an open book.”

His delivery was all business—steady, sharp, and final. He gave nothing away, not even a flicker of doubt.

The scent of burnt coffee lingered in the air, half-drunk mugs cluttering the table as I stared at the screen, numb. My daughter sat beside me, her eyes red and confused, tears streaming silently down her cheeks.

Her tiny fists balled up in the sleeves of her pink pajamas, clutching her stuffed fox. The blue light from the TV flickered on her wet cheeks, and for a moment, my own hollow reflection stared back at me. It’s strange—how even a child can feel the sting of betrayal, how three years old is already old enough to know when a parent’s pretending the world is different than it is.

All the longing and hope I’d clung to for years suddenly let go.

Something inside me snapped—like a dam finally bursting. The pain was sharp, but there was relief too, as if I’d finally tasted fresh air after years behind closed doors.

When Jason came home, I didn’t rush Maddie out to greet him, didn’t wait by the door, heart pounding, hoping he’d smile at us.

No more smoothing my hair or listening for the garage door. I stayed upstairs, letting his footsteps echo through the house. No more pretending, no more rehearsed warmth. No more chances.

Instead, I read his message again and again: the receipt for his vasectomy from six days ago, and a single, chilling line:

“If you’re willing, from now on, Maddie will be my only child.”

It was there, as binding as any contract—a promise I never thought I’d see. The irony burned: a signature on a surgical form was more permanent than any vow we’d spoken, and his text cut deeper than any argument ever had.

With tears blurring my vision, I replied: “Come pick me up. I don’t want to stay in the Hartman house anymore.”

I pressed send, my thumb trembling. That one message felt like a door slamming shut.