Chapter 1

I never thought the next time I’d hear about Mark Hughes would be like this.

My best friend forwarded me a photo. There was Mark, looking all gentle and patient, accompanying some woman at a prenatal appointment.

The sick joke? The woman in the picture wasn't me.

"Claire, is this Mark? Did something happen between you two?"

Jess texted me, but I couldn’t bring myself to reply.

A week ago, my period was over ten days late. The pregnancy test showed two solid lines.

Mark had gone with me to the clinic. Confirmed: three weeks pregnant.

And since that day, I hadn't seen my boyfriend. Calls went straight to voicemail, texts unanswered.

It was like he’d vanished off the face of the earth. I was running around like a headless chicken trying to find him, but nothing.

My heart sank, lower and lower. A chilling cold seeped into my bones, an icy ache spreading through me.

It felt like a thousand-pound weight was crushing my chest, making it hard to breathe.

I took a deep breath, let it out slowly, trying to piece my shattered self back together.

We’d been together two years. Met the parents. All our friends knew.

This couldn't be happening. Not like this.

I forwarded the picture to Mark. "Who is this woman? How long were you planning to hide this from me?"

A moment later, my phone buzzed. Caller ID: "Mark (Older Guy)."

He’d been ghosting me for a week, unreachable, but one picture had him scrambling to call me back.

If he hadn't called, I might have still held onto some sliver of doubt. But the speed of his response confirmed my worst fears.

My nails dug hard into my palms. I forced myself to stay calm.

Don't ask why his contact name was like that. Let's just say Mark is ten years older than me.

I didn't answer. I declined the call. I knew he'd call back.

Sure enough, he did.

This time, I let it ring for a long while before finally picking up.

"Claire, I was forced into it. Believe me, you're the one I love. You've always been the one," Mark said, his voice rushed and anxious.

I exploded. "Do you have any idea I'm pregnant with your child? This whole week you've been missing, were you with her?"

Mark just kept trying to spin it, feeding me lines. "He loved me the most, he had no feelings for that woman, he lied about being divorced because he was scared I’d be angry..."

"So when are you divorcing her?" My voice was soft now, laced with just the right amount of tearfulness.

Hearing the change in my tone, Mark quickly told me not to overthink things, to just wait for him back at my apartment like a good girl, and then he hung up.

I tilted my head back, fighting back the tears.

He wasn't worth crying over.

After Mark disappeared, friends and family had urged me to get an abortion. But I couldn't believe he was that kind of person. I kept waiting for him to come back, to give me some explanation that made sense.

Turns out, my loyalty just made me a fool.

I touched my stomach. A tiny life was in there. I once thought it was the embodiment of our love.

Now I see, that was just my assumption.

I took a cab to the clinic, checked in, and lay down on the cold procedure table...

Whatever he said, I knew the truth now. I was the other woman. And that was something I could never accept.

2

Dragging my exhausted body home, I curled up on the sofa in my small apartment, feeling like a hollowed-out doll, staring blankly at the door.

I was waiting for an explanation.

Memories of the past two years flickered through my mind. I knew I hadn't completely given up hope.

Day turned into night, night bled into the early morning. Around 1 AM, the door creaked open.

The moment I saw him, I couldn't stop myself. I threw myself into his arms, tears streaming down my face. "I'm not the other woman, I'm not, right?"

Mark roughly pulled me off him. "Claire, get rid of the baby."

I stumbled back a couple of steps, my legs giving way. I collapsed onto the floor, my face pale, drained of all color.

I scrambled back up, grabbing his hand, trying to place it on my still-flat stomach.

He yanked his hand away in disgust, staring at my belly like it was something vile. "Who knows whose kid you're even carrying?"

Ha. Now I saw him clearly.

When a man loves you, you're his treasure. Sweet words, constant care. When he doesn't love you anymore, you're just a weed on the side of the road. He tramples your dignity without a second thought, grinding his heel in for good measure.

Mark had woven this beautiful dream for me, this illusion that he loved me deeply, only to shatter it himself.

Frantically, I grabbed his face, kissing him. He didn't pull away, just let me act like a desperate fool, making a complete spectacle of myself.

I screamed, "Are you telling me you feel nothing for me?"

He let out a cold laugh. "Claire, for men, sex and love can be separate things. Don't be so naive."

He pulled out his wallet, took out a few hundred bucks, and threw the cash in my face. "Take this money and get the abortion. You, Claire Miller, are just some woman I was keeping on the side. Know your place. Don't think you can trap me with a kid. Before you try to mess with me, you better think long and hard about the consequences."

His vicious glare terrified me. I stared at him, stunned that this polite, seemingly gentle man could say such things.

Once the mask was off, this was the real Mark Hughes – cold, cruel, and utterly heartless.

Mark slammed the door behind him, leaving me alone.

The small apartment was filled with memories of us. His favorite beer in the fridge, his laundry hanging on the balcony rack, our picture on the nightstand...

I gathered everything connected to Mark – the photos, the clothes, gifts – and threw it all out, symbolically setting fire to our past in my mind. The imaginary flames flickered, but they couldn't warm the ice in my heart.

Mark and I met at a bar.

I was in my junior year of college, waitressing part-time to make ends meet. A group of older guys started harassing me. He was there, supposedly a manager in the beverage industry meeting clients. He stepped in, said he couldn't stand men who picked on women.

The classic hero saving the damsel routine. So cliché, yet it messed with my head.

He told me his wife was controlling, that there was no love between them, that his life was miserable.

He told me he loved how gentle and understanding I was.

He told me he was divorced...

He was just playing games. Lines whispered in the heat of the moment, and I’d believed them.

I wouldn't stand for this!

How could I?

If I couldn't be happy, neither could he!

3

The next day, I went to my best friend Jess’s place.

Jess and I met in college. She majored in criminal psychology and knew people in various fields, including law enforcement and medicine. I laid everything out for her, told her exactly what happened, and what I planned to do.

She was fully supportive. First step: find Mark's wife's contact information.

Talking to Jess helped calm me down, but my right eyelid twitched uncontrollably all day. I felt uneasy, on edge.

Finally, I told Jess I should head back. Worried about me, she insisted on driving me home.

We went back to my apartment first.

When we got there, the door was open!

I distinctly remembered locking it when I left. How could it be open?

I swallowed down the rising panic.

My little apartment had been robbed. Things were tossed everywhere. Cash, jewelry, my laptop – anything valuable was gone.

The lock wasn't broken. It hadn't been forced. How did the thief get a key?

Could it be him? Mark?

I called the police and filed a report, but the uneasy feeling wouldn't go away.

Based on the scene and what I told her, Jess suspected the theft wasn't just about valuables; it felt like retaliation.

She thought the thief might come back.

Right then and there, I ordered a hidden camera from Amazon, same-day delivery. That evening, we installed it inside the eye of a teddy bear on the sofa. Jess, worried for my safety, decided to stay with me.

One day, two days, three days passed... Not a sign of the thief.

We were living off takeout, trying to keep a low profile, making it look like I was alone. Jess was exhausted.

I started to doubt our theory, feeling deflated and guilty for putting her through this.

"Jess, you look wiped. You haven't slept properly for days. You don't have to stay tonight, I can take you home," I said, looking at the dark circles under her eyes. It made me feel awful.

"Claire, be patient. Just another day or two, tops. He'll definitely be back," Jess said, full of confidence.

I trusted her instincts. I nodded.

Late that night, the streetlights cast long, dim shadows.

I tossed and turned in bed, unable to sleep. Sometime after midnight, just as I started to drift off, I heard a noise.

Creeeak...

The sound of the door opening sent my already frayed nerves snapping taut.

Mustering my courage, I tiptoed barefoot out of the bedroom, hugging the wall, peering into the living room.

Click.

I flipped on the light. A scruffy-looking guy with bleached blond hair was lounging on my sofa, legs crossed arrogantly, eating a banana I’d bought earlier that day.

"Who are you? How did you get a key to my place?"

I was wearing a lacy slip, my collarbones and legs exposed. The blond punk's eyes raked over me, leering.

"Well hello there, beautiful. Dressed so sexy late at night... who you trying to seduce?"

His fingernails were rimmed with dirt. He made a claw shape with his grimy hand and reached towards my chest.

Terrified, I screamed, "Help!"

THWACK!

Jess had appeared silently behind him. She swung the metal pipe we’d prepared, hitting him hard on the back of the head. The punk crumpled, unconscious. I grabbed some rope, and together, Jess and I tied him up before calling 911.

We clung to each other afterward, shaking, the adrenaline finally hitting us.

The police arrived.

I gave them the footage from the hidden camera, showing the blond punk breaking in and attempting to assault me.

A young officer recognized him. "This guy's got priors. We've been watching him for days but couldn't pin anything on him."

Breaking and entering, attempted sexual assault, caught red-handed, with video evidence – the punk wasn't getting away this time. I just had to wait for the legal process.

After the police left, I found a key near the sofa where the punk had struggled. It must have fallen out of his pocket.

One side had a small 'M', the other a small 'H'.

Mark Hughes.

It really was him.

We’d been together two years. You’d think there’d be some shred of decency left. But he tried to have me assaulted, to ruin me like this!

Blind rage filled me. How could I have been so stupid? How could I have believed the lies of that animal for two whole years?

This sealed it. My resolve hardened.

Mark didn't want his wife to find out about his affairs, about me. Oh, I wouldn’t let him get his wish.

He liked playing games with women? Let's see how he likes being played.

But first, I needed to know: what exactly was the connection between this blond punk and Mark Hughes?