My "Goddaughter" Is His Secret Child

Chapter 3 The Betrayal Unveiled

With a heavy thud, Yvonne collapsed to the ground, gripping my legs as tears cascaded down her cheeks.

"Claire, please, you must let me explain," she pleaded.

She poured out her story, revealing a past where her ex-husband had brutalized her, leaving her battered and in need of hospital care, only to abandon her with nothing. In her time of despair, it was Mark who had generously offered shelter to her and her daughter, driven by a sense of moral duty.

"We reside here, but we've caused no harm. He merely felt sorry for us!" Yvonne sobbed.

I looked past her towards the little girl who had just been brought inside by the nanny. Through the large window, Vivi examined the outside world, her tiny hands pressed eagerly on the glass.

Her brow, dimples, and prominent nose so clearly mirrored Mark's features.

Calculations whirred in my mind. Vivi's conception had to be around three years ago. That was the April when a truck had slammed into me, leaving me sprawled on the asphalt. My subsequent twenty-day stay in the ICU concluded with the devastating news that my uterus had been removed, and I would never bear children.

Throughout that ordeal, Yvonne visited my hospital room daily. She was the one who fed me, bathed me, and stayed at my side, absorbing my tears. In contrast, Mark was perpetually busy with pressing matters at work, never visiting.

Only now did I comprehend the nature of those so-called urgent matters. As I grappled with the loss of my uterus, he was fashioning a new life with my closest friend.

Yvonne remained kneeling, eyes beseeching. "Claire, back then, Mark was shattered. Learning you couldn't have children broke him. He drowned his sorrow in alcohol. I just wanted to offer comfort in your absence."

I locked my gaze on her, my emotions a turmoil. Then she uttered a sentence that nearly drove me to madness.

"I had the baby for both of you," she said, her voice shaky yet defiant. "Claire, you lost the ability to have children, but Mark needs someone to carry on his name. I'm basically being a surrogate for you. I don't need recognition. Vivi always calls you Mommy Claire, doesn't she?"

Despite the tears streaming down her face, she spoke with an increasing sense of righteousness, utterly convinced she was acting out of selflessness. She justified her actions by claiming loyalty to her closest friend and by being with her friend's partner and even giving them a child.

My hand twitched, almost ready to strike, but I hesitated and lowered it.

My mind flashed back to the orphanage hallways. At the tender age of four, some bullies took my meal, and there was Yvonne, barely six, rushing to my defense. She was knocked down, but she rose again, head bleeding, yet still clutching the bread meant for me.

"Whenever you're being bullied, come find me," she used to say, her eyes sparkling with determination and care.

Later, when I was confined to the hospital, she spent countless nights on the hard, cold folding chair by my bed. She never uttered a word of complaint.

Yet, during those times of loyalty, she was sharing a bed with my partner. Her pretense was exceptional, so seamless that I couldn't discern where genuine compassion ended and deceit began.

Despite my anger, a part of me couldn't entirely hate her. But forgiveness? That was simply impossible.

Mark scowled as he watched me, silent and conflicted.

"You're doing it again," he snapped, irritation evident. "You've always been like this since we were kids, so distant and aloof. Yvonne made a huge sacrifice here. Can't you empathize with her intentions?"

I met his gaze. He, who cheated on me and had a child with my best friend, was now chiding me for being hard-hearted.

Without a word, I turned and grabbed the car door handle. Mark stepped closer, then trapped the door with his hand.