He cried that day, cried like a little kid: "Tracey Simmons—we're real family now. Finally."
Everyone knew how good he was to me.
So when photos surfaced a month before the wedding—him pressed skin-to-skin against some nightclub dancer—
I assumed our competitors had fabricated them with AI to take him down.
Until the dancer herself strolled into Graves Group headquarters with a swollen belly, looked me dead in the face in front of senior management, and sneered: "Mrs. Graves, can't keep your man? Then get off the throne already."
"I'm carrying the Graves family's firstborn heir right here."
I laughed. Not out of sarcasm. Because she was stupid. "You waltz in here waving a pregnancy test and claim it's Conrad's child? Do you think this family runs an orphanage?"
The dancer's face cycled between red and white.
Then Conrad dropped to his knees at my feet, slapping himself across the face as he begged: "Tracey, I'm sorry. I was drunk, I mistook her for someone else. Hit me, curse me, I'll take all of it."
"But the baby she's carrying is my first child."
I stood frozen. I couldn't believe the Conrad who loved me had fallen for someone else.