I was forced to plan my husband’s mistress’s baby shower, but neither of them had any idea what kind of “gift” I was preparing, a DNA test that would completely destroy their pride...

I walked out to the floor-to-ceiling glass corridor overlooking the Los Angeles skyline, listening to the desperate panting of the man who had once treated me like a slave.

"Why are you calling me, Brandon?" I asked, my voice flat, completely devoid of emotion.

"Sabrina! They put me in a holding cell with ten men!" Brandon sobbed, his voice echoing with hollow terror. "My lawyer says the bail is set at ten million dollars! All my accounts are frozen! I can't even afford a private defense attorney! My mother is staying in a cheap motel in Glendale, screaming at me every time she visits! Please... you have to post my bail! You have to help your husband!"

"Husband?" I echoed softly, letting out a cold laugh. "You filed for divorce three months ago, Brandon. You had your lawyer draft a settlement giving me zero dollars, remember? You said I deserved nothing because I couldn't give you an heir."

"I was wrong! I was crazy! Tiffany tricked me, I tell you!" Brandon pleaded frantically. "She gave me drugs! She manipulated my mind! I never wanted to hurt you, Sabrina! I love you! I’ve always loved you! We can fix this! Please... just pay the bail! I'll do whatever you want! I'll sign whatever you want! I'll get on my knees and scrub the floors of the mansion for the rest of my life!"

I listened to him grovel. There was a time when hearing him beg might have given me a sense of satisfaction. But now, listening to his pathetic excuses, I felt nothing but a deep, profound disgust.

"You know, Brandon," I said slowly, "when you brought Tiffany into our house, you told me that I had to accept my limitations. You told me that power belonged to those who could build a legacy."

"Sabrina... please—"

"Now it's time for you to accept your limitations," I interrupted coldly. "You have no legacy. You have no fortune. You have no son. And you no longer have a wife."

"SABRINA! DON'T HANG UP! SABRINA!"

"Goodbye, Brandon."

I pressed the red button, ending the call, and immediately blocked the number.

I took a deep breath of the air conditioned air, feeling a profound sense of clarity wash over me. The monster was in his cage. The shadows of my past were finally dissipating.

An hour later, I arrived at the Cedars-Sinai Medical Center for my appointment with Dr. Elena Rostova.

The fertility clinic was peaceful, bright, and filled with sunlight streaming through large windows. Dr. Rostova, a warm, soft-spoken woman in her early fifties, greeted me in her private office with a radiant smile.

"Mrs. Keller—or should I say, Ms. Vance?" Dr. Rostova said gently, reviewing my newly conducted ultrasound scans and blood panels.

"Ms. Vance is fine," I smiled, using my maiden name for the first time in ten years. "How are the results, Doctor?"

Dr. Rostova turned the monitor screen toward me. She pointed to a clear, beautifully detailed ultrasound image of my reproductive anatomy.

"Sabrina, I've thoroughly reviewed the original uncorrupted records from your surgery eight years ago, as well as today's high-resolution scans," Dr. Rostova said, her voice full of genuine joy. "There is zero structural damage. Your ovarian reserve is exceptional for your age, your uterine lining is perfectly healthy, and your hormone levels are ideal."

I stared at the screen, tears welling up in my eyes once more. Hearing it from a corrupt doctor eight years ago had broken my spirit. Hearing the truth today restored my soul.

"So... I can have children?" I whispered, my voice trembling.

"You are in prime condition to conceive," Dr. Rostova assured me warmly, reaching out to squeeze my hand. "Whenever you are ready, whether naturally or through standard fertility treatments, your dream of becoming a mother is completely within reach. You were never barren, Sabrina. You were just married to a cancer."