The woman laughed softly.
“You should have told her,” she said.
Then, calmly, she placed her hand on her stomach.
“I’m his wife,” she said. “We’ve been married for three years.”
My knees nearly gave out.
“And I’m carrying his baby.”
The room exploded.
Gasps. Whispers. Shock.
“No way…”
“This can’t be real…”
Ethan stepped forward, desperate. “No! I swear, I don’t know her!”
But she didn’t argue.
She reached into her bag and pulled out photos.
Her and Ethan. Smiling. Close.
Then printed messages.
Love texts. Promises.
Then a marriage certificate.
My hands started shaking.
And then—
“A DNA report,” she said quietly.
Silence.
Then chaos.
“How could you do this?”
“Shame on you!”
“Leave him!”
People turned on Ethan instantly.
Seven years.
Seven years of love, trust, pain—
collapsing in front of me.
Ethan kept repeating, “I’m innocent. I don’t know her.”
But the evidence…
It looked real.
Too real.
For ten long minutes, the room turned into a battlefield.
Voices rising.
Accusations flying.
Two people standing in front of me—
both sounding like they were telling the truth.
And me?
I was breaking.
Lost.
Until suddenly…
A memory came back.
Not just a moment—a promise.
Years ago, Ethan held my hands and said,