The blanket still smelled like her perfume, faint and haunting, like she had left it there on purpose to taunt me. I stared at the note again,four words that made my blood run cold: I want him.
Adrian didn't say anything at first. He stood by the crib, back straight, muscles tense, like if he moved too quickly the whole world might shatter. He grabbed the note, crushed it in his fist, and walked straight out of the nursery without a word. I followed him down the hall, heart thudding, unable to stop the images racing through my mind.
Security was called again, the house placed under immediate lockdown. No one in or out. All staff reinterviewed. All footage reviewed, frame by frame. And still, nothing. No trace of her face, only a shadow caught by the nursery camera,a figure with familiar movement, long hair tucked beneath a dark hoodie. It was Eliora, but not the sister I remembered. This version of her had sharp edges, like she had been living in bitterness and bile for too long, and now it was spilling out in every direction.
That night, Adrian barely spoke. He sat at the edge of our bed with his head in his hands while I paced the room. The baby kicked once, twice, and I paused, pressing my hand to my stomach, whispering promises I wasn't sure I could keep. We moved the crib into our bedroom. Adrian installed new cameras, motion detectors, thermal sensors. He said he didn't trust the guards anymore, and I didn't blame him,I didn't trust anyone either.
The next morning, he called in a private investigator. The man showed up wearing all black and sunglasses, speaking in clipped words. "She won't go far," he said. "This isn't a threat. It's a warning. She's watching your every move. She wants control."
I didn't need a detective to tell me that. I already felt her eyes on me. Every time I passed a mirror. Every time the lights flickered. Every time I stood too long near the nursery window.
Vanessa visited that afternoon. She brought tea, not because I asked, but because she knew I wouldn't eat otherwise. She didn't ask how I was. She just sat next to me on the couch and stared ahead.
"She's escalating," she said after a long silence. "This isn't about revenge anymore. It's about possession. She wants the life she gave away, and she wants it back on her terms."
"She can't have it," I replied, though my voice sounded weaker than I wanted.
"She thinks she still owns it," Vanessa said, her lips barely moving. "And she's not wrong. You're living in her shadow, whether you like it or not."
That stung. I pushed the tea away. Adrian came in just as Vanessa was leaving and saw the tightness in my face. He didn't ask questions. He simply took my hand, led me to bed, and lay beside me until my breathing slowed.
Two days passed. No notes. No dolls. No thuds on the roof. It almost felt peaceful, but I knew better. Calm was just the silence before another storm.
And it came.
The morning of our doctor's appointment, Adrian received a call from the investigator.
"She hacked into your father's system again," he said. "This time, she accessed contracts, legal files, even medical records."
Adrian frowned, jaw tight. "She's looking for leverage."
"She's trying to prove the marriage was built on fraud," the investigator said. "If she succeeds, the contract your father made could be declared invalid."
"And the company ?"
"Goes to your uncle," he replied flatly.
My stomach twisted. Not just from the baby, but from fear. So many pieces moving now, I could barely keep track.
"She's trying to burn it all down," I whispered after Adrian ended the call.
"She won't win," he said, pressing a kiss to my forehead, but his hands trembled slightly when he let go of me.
At the hospital, the doctor smiled after the scan. "Strong heartbeat. Steady growth. You're both doing well."
I almost cried. Adrian kissed my knuckles, his eyes misty. In that moment, everything else faded….the notes, the threats, the secrets. Just for a moment.
We returned home to find a package waiting at the gate. No postage. No return label. Just our address written in bold, slanted handwriting I knew too well.
Inside, a single photograph.
Eliora, standing outside my mother's grave.
Wearing my favorite red scarf.
Holding a single rose.
I sank into the nearest chair. Adrian hovered behind me, breathing heavy.
"She's not just coming after us. She's digging into our past."
"She's unstable," I whispered. "This isn't just about the baby. This is about identity."
That night, I found another note tucked inside my journal.
I gave him to you. I can take him back.
I didn't scream. I didn't wake Adrian. I simply folded it and slid it into the fire.
But the flames didn't ease the chill that ran through me.
The next morning, Vanessa called in a panic.
"She's talking to your uncle's people. Trying to convince them she's the real wife. That the wedding was a switch, a scam to rob the Montclair name."
"She has no proof," Adrian said, overhearing the call.
"She's making it," Vanessa replied. "She has someone helping her. Someone who knows the family well."
Adrian paced the room. "Who?"
Vanessa hesitated. "Your cousin,Nicholas. He's been feeding her information."
Adrian stopped mid-step, eyes wide. "That bastard."
"He wants the company," Vanessa said. "If the contract fails and the marriage is voided, the company defaults to my uncle,and Nicholas gets the CEO seat."
It all made a big sort of sense. Eliora didn't just want Adrian anymore. She wanted power. She wanted status. She wanted to be queen of the empire she never earned.
That night, Adrian received another message.
A video file.
We sat in the dark, the screen casting shadows on the walls.
Eliora appeared, dressed in a black dress I hadn't seen in years, standing in what looked like a private room. She held up a photo of me and Adrian. Then she set it down on a table, took out a lighter, and burned it slowly, the flames licking at our smiling faces.
When it turned to ash, she looked at the camera.
"This is the beginning," she said. "I'm coming for everything."
Adrian turned off the screen and didn't speak. Just walked over to the window and stared out into the night. I stood behind him, unsure of what to say.
"She'll try to ruin us," I said finally. "She's already started."
"She'll fail," he muttered, though his voice lacked conviction.
The next morning, the investigator returned.
"She's booked a press interview," he said. "She plans to reveal everything on live television,your names, the switch, the pregnancy. She's calling it a 'truth campaign.'"
My knees went weak.
Adrian caught me before I hit the ground.
"She can't go public," he said. "It'll destroy not just us, but our child."
"Then stop her," I whispered, breath shallow.
The investigator nodded. "We'll intercept the broadcast. Delay it. Maybe sabotage the recording."
"Do it," Adrian said.
Later that evening, Vanessa called again.
"She's gone off-script," she said. "The press interview? It was a decoy. She's already talking to bloggers, tabloids, YouTubers,anyone who'll listen. It's spreading like wildfire."
And just like that, everything cracked open.
Social media flooded with hashtags: #MontclairScandal, #TwinSwap, #FakeBride.
Photos of me and Eliora from high school. Grainy images from the wedding. A clip of our engagement announcement.
Comments piled in. Accusations. Sympathy. Curiosity.
I shut off my phone, deleted the apps.
Adrian canceled all meetings, issued a press statement claiming defamation.
It didn't matter.
The damage had already begun.
We stayed up that night packing bags,just in case.
"I won't let them take her from me," I said, palm on my belly.
Adrian turned, eyes fierce. "No one will."
That's when the front gate buzzed.
Security checked the monitor.
A single woman, standing alone.
Long coat.
Hair tied back.
Holding something in her hand.
A birth certificate.
Signed.
Stamped.
Dated.
Adrian's name listed as the father.
Eliora's name listed as the mother.
A date only two weeks away.
She was already preparing her claim.
"She forged it," Adrian said, but his voice faltered.
"She's laying groundwork," I said. "She's making herself the legal mother."
And then we saw what she had written at the bottom of the paper.
In red ink, a final warning:
I'm not leaving without my son.