He prescribed me barren

The lock broke on my third try. I did not plan to break into my husband's drawer that night. I only came to his office looking for my research notebook, the one he borrowed three weeks ago and never returned. But the drawer called to me. It always had a padlock on it, always sat in the corner of his desk like a secret waiting to breathe. Richard was at a medical conference in another city. He would not be home until Friday. I had nothing to fear and nowhere to rush, so when my eyes landed on that drawer for the hundredth time, I grabbed a letter opener and pried it open. The first thing I saw was a phone. A small silver phone I had never seen before. Below it sat a brown envelope, thick with papers. I pulled them out and spread them across the desk. My hands went cold. It was a marriage certificate. Richard's full name printed in bold. But the bride's name was not mine. It read Dorinda. Date of registration: seven years ago. I stared at it for so long that my vision blurred. Seven years. Richard and I met five years ago. He proposed after two years of dating. We married three years ago. Or so I believed. I grabbed my phone and pulled up photos of our own certificate, holding the two side by side. Ours looked almost identical in format, but now the differences screamed at me. The seal on mine sat slightly to the left. The registration number had one digit too many. Mine was fake. "No," I whispered. "No, this cannot be right." But there was more. Beneath the certificate were photographs. Richard and Dorinda on a beach, her head on his shoulder. Richard and Dorinda cutting a cake, the number five made of candles glowing between them. An anniversary celebration. Five years ago. The same year he told me he loved me for the first time. My throat tightened, but I did not cry. Not yet. Because beneath the photos was a folder, and the folder had the logo of a foreign pharmaceutical company printed on its cover. I opened it with shaking fingers. Inside were contracts. Twelve of them. Each one signed by Richard, selling a drug formula to this company. And every single formula was mine. I had spent six years of my life developing those compounds. Late nights in the lab. Weekends buried in data. Three of those formulas had the potential to treat chronic illnesses affecting millions. I gave them to Richard because he said his clinic network would develop and distribute them. He called it our shared dream. He had been selling them. One by one. For millions. I counted the payment records stapled to each contract. Sixty-three million dollars. That was how much my husband earned by stealing my life's work. The phone in the drawer buzzed. I picked it up. The screen lit with a message. Dorinda: Coming home Saturday. Innocent's school play is Monday. Do not forget. Innocent. The boy sleeping upstairs in the bedroom next to mine. The five-year-old child Richard brought home two years ago, claiming he was his late brother's orphaned son. The boy I bathed, fed, dressed, and helped with homework every single day since then. I scrolled up through the messages. Hundreds of them. Pet names. Plans. Arguments about money, vacations, and when to "finally deal with Shaznay." One message from Richard, dated three months ago, made my stomach turn. Richard: She still believes the heart thing. Has not questioned it once in three years. As long as she thinks she cannot have children, she will never leave. She needs me too much. The room started spinning. I gripped the edge of the desk to keep from falling. My heart condition. The one Richard diagnosed himself when we were dating. The one he said made pregnancy dangerous and physical strain life-threatening. The one that made me give up my career, depend on him completely, and accept that I would never be a mother. I walked down the hallway to Innocent's room. His door was open. I leaned against the frame and watched him sleep. His small chest rose and fell under the blue blanket I bought him last month. His dark curls spread across the pillow. For two years, I woke up early to make him breakfast. I drove him to school. I sat through his tantrums, his fevers, his nightmares. When he screamed that he wanted his real mother, I held him and told him I was right here. But I was never his mother. And Richard was never his uncle. Who was this child? Whose son was he really? I returned to the office and put everything back exactly as I found it. I closed the drawer, placed the broken padlock on top so it still looked shut, then photographed every document, every message, every contract on that second phone, and sent them all to my private email. I lay down on Richard's side of the bed and stared at the ceiling. The tears did not come. Something else did. Something cold and clean, like a blade sliding into place. My phone rang at eleven forty-five. Unknown number. I almost did not answer. "Hello?" "Good evening. Is this Shaznay?" "Who is asking?" "My name is Matthew. I am a senior attorney at a law firm handling a matter of great importance regarding your biological mother's estate." I sat up slowly. My biological mother. The woman who left me at a children's home when I was two years old. The woman I had never met, never known, never forgiven. "My mother abandoned me twenty-three years ago. I have no interest in anything she left behind." "I understand your feelings. But your mother spent the last fifteen years of her life searching for you. She passed away six months ago, and her estate is significant. More significant than you can imagine." "How significant?" "Your mother was Valda. The founder and sole owner of Apex Pharmaceuticals." The name hit me like a wall. Everyone in this country knew Apex. Their drugs were in every hospital, every pharmacy, every clinic. Even Richard's. "She left everything to you, Shaznay. You are her only biological child. Her sole heir." I could not speak. My mouth opened, but nothing came out. "I will be there tomorrow," I managed. I ended the call and pressed the phone against my chest. Three hours ago, I was a housewife with a heart condition and a fake marriage. Now, I was something else entirely.