His Faked Infertility, My Sweet Revenge

Ainsley POV:

The words sounded insane even to my own ears. Hyper-fertile. It was the kind of thing you' d read in a trashy tabloid, not a term that had any place in my carefully curated life. But a heavy, cold dread settled in my gut, a primal instinct telling me that this absurdity was somehow at the heart of everything.

"Graham," I said, my voice becoming sharper, more focused. The COO was back in control. "Damian's contract with the hospital is up for renewal next month, right? The one with the performance clause we structured?"

"Yes," he said, his voice cautious. "Ains, are you okay? You're not thinking of doing something rash, are you?"

Am I okay? The question was laughable. I felt like I was being skinned alive, layer by layer. But my voice remained steady. "No. I'm being perfectly rational. I need the best divorce lawyer you can find. Someone ruthless. I want him to leave with nothing. Not a single cent."

I had been a fool. When we got married, I had stubbornly refused my father's insistence on a prenup. I had been so sure, so naively certain, that Damian's love was pure, that he wasn't after the Pierce fortune. I believed he would never betray me.

My phone buzzed. A message from Damian.

Ainsley, what I said earlier was just out of anger. Casey' s son is sick, he has a high fever. I couldn' t just leave her to handle it alone.

I'm a doctor. It's my duty to help.

He was still trying to play the hero.

I typed a reply, my fingers flying across the screen.

I don't care.

Pack your things. I want you out of my house by tomorrow.

His reply was a single question mark, followed by a string of furious, accusatory messages.

You're kicking me out? After everything? You' re pushing me into another woman's arms!

Fine! You want to make this happen? Then you've got it! You've succeeded!

I didn't bother replying. Instead, I sent him one last message.

Do you remember what you said at our wedding? 'For better or for worse, in sickness and in health, I will honor you and cherish you, forsaking all others, as long as we both shall live.'

The screen showed he was typing, then stopped. A moment later, a red exclamation mark appeared next to my message. He had blocked me.

My heart, which I thought couldn't break any further, splintered into a million more pieces.

A new friend request popped up on my social media. Casey Valdez.

I accepted.

Almost immediately, a video appeared in my inbox. It was shot in a hospital room. Damian was sitting on the edge of a bed, coaxing a little boy to take some medicine. He was smiling, his face softer and more genuinely happy than I had seen it in years. The boy bore a startling resemblance to him.

Casey's message followed. He's so good with kids, isn't he? A natural father.

My reply was swift and cold. I don' t care about your little performances. The only thing I trust is what my own investigation uncovers.

The next day, I walked into the annual hospital board meeting with my head held high. Graham met me at the door, his face grim. He handed me a thick manila folder.

"It's worse than you think," he said quietly.

I opened it, my hands shaking so badly I could barely turn the pages.

Casey Valdez. Not a poor, struggling single mother. She had a history as a cosplayer at anime conventions, specializing in "sexy maid" outfits. That's where she had met Damian, eight years ago, before he even knew me.

For years, she had sent him suggestive photos. He had occasionally replied. The flirtation had been long, patient, and calculated. She had constantly mentioned her "fertility," her ability to have sons.

There were hotel records. From the week before our wedding.

There were bank statements. Monthly transfers from a private account Damian held, totaling hundreds of thousands of dollars over the years.

He had brought her into our home as an au pair two weeks ago, the day after I left for Switzerland to meet with the fertility specialist.

My mind went blank, a maelstrom of rage and pain. But my voice, when I spoke, was eerily calm.

"Is he speaking at the conference today?" I asked Graham, referring to the major medical symposium happening in the main auditorium.

"Yes. He's the keynote."

"Is it being live-streamed? To other hospitals? Medical journals?"

Graham nodded, looking at me with growing alarm. "Ainsley, what are you going to do?"

I gave him a thin, brittle smile. "I'm going to crash the party."

And with that, I turned and walked towards the auditorium, the file clutched in my hand like a weapon.