The woman, experiencing labor pains, called her husband. He, holding his mistress in one arm and his phone in the other, coldly replied, “If it’s a girl, I don’t want to raise her; she’ll only be a burden on the house… Go live with your parents!” Then he hung up.

The following afternoon, Jason drove back to his house in Bellevue, irritated but confident. He assumed Emily had done as he told her—run back to her parents, embarrassed and defeated.

Instead, he found the gates wide open.

A moving truck blocked the driveway. Two men were carrying furniture out of the house—the crib he had refused to assemble, Emily’s antique vanity, even the leather office chair from his study.

“What the hell is going on?” Jason shouted, striding toward them. “Who said you could touch my stuff?”

A man in a tailored suit stepped out of the front door, holding a leather briefcase. It was Mr. Reynolds, the attorney who had handled Emily’s family affairs for years.

“Mr. Walker,” he said calmly. “You’re just in time.”

“In time for what? Where’s Emily? And the baby?”

“Mrs. Walker is safe. And her daughter is healthy. Her name is Grace. Quite appropriate, don’t you think?”

Jason let out a short, uneasy laugh. “I told her to go to her parents’. Didn’t think she’d actually move out this fast. Fine. I’ll change the locks.”

Mr. Reynolds’s expression didn’t change.

“That won’t be necessary. This property belongs to Mrs. Walker.”

Jason’s smile faded.