After His Mistress Claimed My AI Husband’s Baby

Twenty minutes is a long time in a room like that.

Brycen kept talking. He said the word "lawyer" four times. He said "defamation," which was funny, because he had the definition exactly backwards. Ember kept reading comments out loud, feeding them to the room like she was pouring gasoline on a fire that had already stopped burning.

I didn't argue with any of it.

I opened my laptop instead.

The hinge creaked. It always does. Three years of hauling it between lecture halls in a bag that was too small for it. I turned the screen so it faced Ember's camera, angled it up until the ring light stopped glaring off the glass, and typed in my password.

"What are you doing?" Brycen said.

I didn't answer him.

I have a folder on my desktop. It isn't labeled anything dramatic. It just says COLE, K. Inside it, subfolders by year. I keep everything. I've kept everything since I was twelve years old and learned that nobody believes a girl without paperwork.

I opened the first one.

A wire transfer confirmation. September, three years ago. $4,280 to Seattle Pacific University, student account 88-4471, applied to fall tuition balance. Payer: H. Henderson.

I scrolled.

Another one. Spring semester. $4,280.

Another. Summer session, because she'd failed statistics and needed to retake it, and I'd told her that failing something wasn't the same as being a failure.

I didn't say any of that out loud. I just let the screen move.

Receipts next. A Barnes & Noble order, $612.44, seven textbooks, shipped to a dorm address. A REI receipt from November — one winter coat, women's small, $189. She'd come to office hours that month in a hoodie with the cuffs worn through, shivering, pretending she wasn't. She'd said Seattle wasn't that cold. She'd been from West Virginia. She knew exactly how cold it was.

I scrolled.

An apartment lease. Second page, where the co-signer goes. My name in my own handwriting. My social security number. My credit on the line for a girl with no rental history and no family willing to put their name next to hers.

A deposit receipt. $1,500.

A dentist invoice. $840, two fillings and a cleaning, because she'd never had either.

I scrolled.

Recommendation letters. Three of them, PDFs, my signature at the bottom. One for a research assistantship. One for a summer internship. One for the job at Maximilian's company — the one I'd asked him to make happen, the one he'd made happen in a single afternoon because I asked.

I didn't read them aloud. I didn't need to. The dates were right there in the corner of every document, stacking up like bricks.

The room got quiet.

Not the tense kind of quiet from before. A different kind. The kind that happens when a story stops making sense and everyone in the room notices at the same time.

Ember's mouth was still open. Nothing came out of it. Her viewer count was at seventy-one thousand and she had absolutely nothing to say, which I suspect was a new experience for her. She'd built a whole afternoon around a villain. Nobody had told her the villain kept receipts for winter coats.

I glanced at the phone on my desk. The buzzing had slowed. Not stopped — slowed. Somewhere out there, seventy-one thousand people were scrolling back up to check the dates for themselves.

And Kinslee was staring at the screen.

She'd stopped crying. That was the thing I noticed. The tears had been running like a faucet for fifteen minutes and now they'd just — stopped, mid-track, drying on her cheeks. Her eyes moved down the screen, line by line, following the numbers.

Her chin moved. Just slightly. Her throat worked like she was trying to swallow something too big.

For one second — one — I saw her. Not the performance. Not the trembling hands or the cardigan chosen for the camera. I saw the seventeen-year-old in the passenger seat of a rented car outside a trailer, asking me, very quietly, what I wanted in exchange.

I had told her nothing. I remember saying it. *Nothing, Kinslee. That's not how this works.*

She hadn't believed me then. She still didn't.

But for that one second, she looked ashamed.

Then Brycen stepped in front of her.

He did it smoothly, like he'd done it a hundred times before, putting his body between his sister and whatever she was looking at. He bent his head toward her ear. I couldn't hear all of it. I caught three words.

"—doesn't change anything—"

Her face closed. Just shut, like a door.

And that was the moment I stopped feeling sorry for her.

The hallway outside went strange then. A ripple. Voices dropping, then rising, then dropping again. Someone said *oh my God* and it wasn't about me.

The crowd of students parted.

Maximilian came through the door.

Six-foot-two in charcoal gray, jacket buttoned, not a thread out of place, not a hair, not a breath out of rhythm. He hadn't hurried. He never hurries. He moved through my cramped little office like the room had been designed with his dimensions in mind and everyone else was borrowing the space.

Ember turned her camera toward him and stopped talking mid-word. I heard it happen. "—and now we're seeing, uh—"

Brycen's jaw actually came unhinged. I watched a man who'd spent twenty minutes threatening lawsuits forget how to close his mouth.

Maximilian looked at me first. Just a nod. One, small, precise.

His right hand was holding a slim black folder. His left hand hung perfectly still at his side.

I knew that stillness. I've learned to read it.

Then he turned to the room.

"I understand," he said, "there's a timeline in dispute."

His voice was quiet. Every person in that hallway heard it.

"Allow me to resolve it."