On our wedding night, my husband, Scott, wanted to get intimate with me, but I turned him down, saying I was tired. He understandingly agreed and kissed me goodnight. Suddenly, at midnight, I felt the bed shake and turned to my side, only to freeze at what Scott was doing on our bed.
On our wedding night, amidst the anticipation, I was hesitating. “Scott, can we… can we talk for a bit?” I asked, suggesting we don’t dive right into the “action.”
Scott frowned and questioned, “Talk? Now?”
Despite his frustration, I expressed my need for more conversation and rest, given the day’s exhaustion.
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Scott reluctantly agreed, masking his disappointment with a gentle kiss on my cheek before we turned in for the night. However, the tranquility of our lavender-scented suite was shattered when I awoke a few hours later.
Our bed was shaking for some reason, and it took a while before my eyes focused enough to see Scott kneeling by the bed, holding a baby.
“Scott?” I whispered, stunned. “What’s going on?”
He glanced nervously around. “Everly, this is Ella… my orphaned niece. Maya—my stepsister—passed weeks ago.”
On our wedding night?
“You lied to me,” I said, heart pounding. “How do we start a life on secrets?”
“I was scared you’d leave,” he muttered.
Days later, at his estate, I found a photo of Scott smiling beside a pregnant woman—Maya.
“You said you were estranged,” I accused.
He finally confessed: “I saw her secretly… helped her.”
“And you hid it all?”
When I suggested adoption, he exploded. “Ella is my responsibility.”
Confused, hurt, I left—with Ella.
At the beach, a woman sneered, “Scott’s daughter?”
