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My husband, Liam, wanted to give his illegitimate son my family's century-old apple orchard. In the fifth year of our marriage, he brought the three-year-old boy straight into our home. "He's the orphan of a business partner. From now on, he's our son," he lied without blinking. I stared at the boy’s face, a perfect miniature of his father's. "Which partner? The one in Portland three years ago? The one who had you renting an apartment instead of staying at the hotel?" His composure shattered. With the lie dead on arrival, he laid his cards on the table. "The boy's mother is moving in, too. You can't have children, Elara. Are you going to stop me from finding someone who can?" "Besides," he added, "your position as mistress of Dawnlight Estate is rock-solid." I almost laughed. Rock-solid? I would show him exactly how his cider company had been started with my trust fund and built on my family's land. "Liam, get ready for a divorce." "I'll make sure you remember exactly who owns this land." ... Liam scoffed, as if I'd just said the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard. He lifted the boy, Leo, into a high chair, then turned to face me. Sliding his hands into the pockets of his slacks, he looked me up and down. "Remember who owns the land?" he repeated, the mockery in his voice a blade. "Elara, let's get something straight. Who is the CEO of Orchard Bloom, LLC?" "You are." "And whose name are the cider trademarks registered under?" "Yours." "Who negotiated our biggest distribution deals, from Whole Foods on the West Coast to boutique grocers in New York?" "You did." "Exactly." He walked to the bar and poured a glass of water, setting it down with a sharp tap on the granite countertop. "So what makes you think you're in any position to talk about dividing assets? Just because you own this land?" He took a long drink, as if quenching a deep thirst. "Have you forgotten Section 7B of the company'......

Three years after she remarried Rhys Romano, Camille Blake attended a low-key alumni fundraiser and overheard a secret she was never meant to hear. Isla Sutton, her words slurring slightly from champagne, was holding court during a game of truth or dare. Someone had asked her for the most thrilling thing she’d ever done. She swirled the bubbles in her glass, a smirk playing on her lips. “Sleeping with Rhys Romano behind his wife’s back, obviously.” “The best part is, his wife actually thinks we’re over.” “I gave him a son. I live in a condo he owns, I drive his Porsche, and I use his Centurion card. Even his household staff answers to me.” When she finished, the room fell silent. Every eye in the place turned to Camille, waiting for the explosion. Because she was Rhys’s wife. ... But Camille didn’t cry. She didn’t make a scene. When a waiter passed by to refill her glass, she simply murmured, “Thank you.” After the party, the changes in her were subtle at first, but soon, people started to notice. First, her Instagram. Every post featuring Rhys vanished. When Rhys came home late, the living room lamp she always left on for him was dark. A short time later, Camille canceled her IVF appointments at the fertility clinic. Five years ago, she and Rhys had been in a horrific car accident. When the impact came, she had thrown herself over him without thinking. Rhys walked away with minor injuries. Camille, however, was in a coma for three days. The doctors later told her that her chances of conceiving naturally were almost zero. For the heir the Romano family craved,and for the family she had once desperately wanted,she had pushed herself for years. She went to the clinic every month and endured countless injections. She held on to endless, heart-breaking hope that one day, she might have their child. After the party, she stopped managing the Romano family’s social calendar. She stopped attending S......

I was on my way to a prenatal checkup when I saw him. My husband, downstairs at the clinic, holding a small family ceremony for the son he’d had with another woman. I watched him hand Cassidy the Devereaux family’s silver comb—the one that was meant for my child. That woman, the daughter of our housekeeper, held their son in her arms and smiled at me. And my husband, Beau, heir to one of South Carolina’s oldest families, simply turned and said, “Amelia, be reasonable.” Reasonable? For the “family duty” he was always talking about, I had endured three years of this sham. For that crumbling dynasty, I had put my career on hold and thrown away my dignity. And now, he wanted to take away my child’s future. I looked at him and a laugh escaped my lips. Beau, you destroyed our marriage. And I would destroy what the Devereaux family treasured most. … I wasn’t following him. I had just walked into the clinic lobby when I saw the familiar Bentley parked out front. It was Beau’s car. So I went inside. “Mrs. Devereaux, your appointment is in half an hour,” the nurse at the front desk said, lowering her voice. “Also, Miss Lynn gave birth here a few days ago. She and the baby are in our best private suite.” She tipped her chin toward the end of the hall. “A lot of people came to celebrate with her. Champagne, gifts… all the things you’d expect from the old families. Mr. Devereaux has been with her the whole time.” She glanced at me. “Mothers who’ve just given birth need their rest, so you’ll want to keep that in mind.” I barely heard the rest of what she said. I was staring at the half-open door to the suite. Inside, Beau was holding a newborn, laughing with several friends over glasses of champagne. Their glasses clinked. “Congratulations, Beau,” a man I recognized said with a laugh. His father sat on the board of an old Charleston bank. “The Devereaux family finally has a son they can acknowledge in public.” T......

I was on my way to a prenatal checkup when I saw him. My husband, downstairs at the clinic, holding a small family ceremony for the son he’d had with another woman. I watched him hand Cassidy the Devereaux family’s silver comb—the one that was meant for my child. That woman, the daughter of our housekeeper, held their son in her arms and smiled at me. And my husband, Beau, heir to one of South Carolina’s oldest families, simply turned and said, “Amelia, be reasonable.” Reasonable? For the “family duty” he was always talking about, I had endured three years of this sham. For that crumbling dynasty, I had put my career on hold and thrown away my dignity. And now, he wanted to take away my child’s future. I looked at him and a laugh escaped my lips. Beau, you destroyed our marriage. And I would destroy what the Devereaux family treasured most. … I wasn’t following him. I had just walked into the clinic lobby when I saw the familiar Bentley parked out front. It was Beau’s car. So I went inside. “Mrs. Devereaux, your appointment is in half an hour,” the nurse at the front desk said, lowering her voice. “Also, Miss Lynn gave birth here a few days ago. She and the baby are in our best private suite.” She tipped her chin toward the end of the hall. “A lot of people came to celebrate with her. Champagne, gifts… all the things you’d expect from the old families. Mr. Devereaux has been with her the whole time.” She glanced at me. “Mothers who’ve just given birth need their rest, so you’ll want to keep that in mind.” I barely heard the rest of what she said. I was staring at the half-open door to the suite. Inside, Beau was holding a newborn, laughing with several friends over glasses of champagne. Their glasses clinked. “Congratulations, Beau,” a man I recognized said with a laugh. His father sat on the board of an old Charleston bank. “The Devereaux family finally has a son they can acknowledge in public.” T......

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