Blurb：
When Adeline discovers her husband Trevor Bishop’s Reddit thread plotting to frame her as an adulterous wife and abandon their IVF-conceived daughter Piper, she uncovers a web of lies threatening their family. Armed with archived Genesis Clinic records, a damning voice recording, and Trevor’s own sperm analysis report proving sterility, this betrayed wife turns the tables. From viral Reddit manipulation to courtroom warfare with lawyer Nate Cohen, follow a mother’s fight against DNA test blackmail, IVF fraud, and a husband determined to weaponize "not my kid" against his own child. Perfect for fans of psychological thrillers about fertility betrayal, legal revenge against gaslighting spouses, and mothers protecting donor-conceived children from toxic family legacies.
Content：
§01Here's the plan. You tell everyone she cheated.
The words glowed on my screen, a serpent's whisper in the digital dark.
The kid isn't yours anyway, so who's to argue?
Set her up. Frame her. Make it airtight.
By the time you're done, she won't just be out of your house with nothing—she'll be ruined.
A small, grinning emoji punctuated the advice.
And the avatar smiling back at me… it was my husband's.
I was scrolling through toddler meal-prep videos, the picture of domestic tranquility, when the Reddit post snagged my eye.
The title was stark, clinical: "Wife agreed to a donor, now I want out. How do I make her the bad guy?"
My blood ran cold.
The details that followed were a clinical dissection of my life.
The low sperm count diagnosis. The private fertility clinic. The agonizing decision to use an anonymous donor.
The avatar, a stylized graphic of a mountain peak against a sunset, was the same one Trevor used across all his platforms. His brand.
My mind reeled back three years, to a cramped beige office at St. Matthews Medical Center. Trevor sat opposite me, the semen analysis report a flimsy shield in his trembling hands.
"My motility… it's near zero, Addie," he’d whispered, his voice cracking. "The doctor said natural conception is… a statistical impossibility."
I saw the devastation in his eyes, the crushing blow to his pride, to his very identity as a man.
My own disappointment was a distant echo. I reached across the space between us and took his hand.
"It's okay, Trev," I said softly. "We have each other. That's what matters."
He snatched his hand back as if burned. "No! It's not okay! What do I tell my parents? That their only son is a failure? That the Bishop name ends with me?"
His panic was a tangible thing, filling the small room until I could barely breathe.
That night, he laid out his plan, his eyes gleaming with a desperate, feverish hope.
"We use a donor, Addie. IVF. We'll tell everyone it took us a while, that's all. It will still be our baby. I'll be the father. Please," he knelt before me on our living room rug, his face buried in my lap. "Please, give me this. Give us this."
For a day and a night, I wrestled with the ethics, the emotions, the sheer weight of the secret we would carry. For a day and a night, he pleaded, promised, and painted a beautiful picture of the family we could be.
In the end, I relented. I loved him. And I believed in the man he was promising to be.
§02
At The Genesis Clinic, a sleek, private facility he’d chosen for its "discretion," the reality of it hit me.
Before he signed the mountain of consent forms, I made him look at me.
"Trevor, are you absolutely sure? Once we do this, there's no going back. This child won't be biologically yours."
He pulled me into a fierce hug, his voice thick with what I thought was sincere emotion. "They will be ours, Addie. In every way that matters. I swear to you, I will love this child more than my own life."
He signed the papers with a flourish.
The day the clinic called with the news of a successful implantation, he wept with joy. He brought home a ridiculously large bouquet of roses and a tiny pair of sneakers.
"For our baby," he’d said, his eyes shining. "Thank you, Addie. Thank you for not giving up on me."
I held onto that memory like a talisman throughout the brutal months that followed.
The daily hormone injections that left my stomach bruised and tender. The bloating that made me feel like a stranger in my own skin. The egg retrieval surgery that left me bedridden and in agony.
Through it all, Trevor was the perfect, doting husband-to-be.
He cooked nutrient-rich meals, massaged my cramping legs at 3 a.m., and whispered words of encouragement when I was too sick and exhausted to even cry. He read every pregnancy book, his highlighter marking passages on paternal bonding.
He was performing the role of a lifetime. And I was his captivated audience of one.
§03
When Piper was born, Trevor’s joy seemed to eclipse my own. He was the one who announced it to the world.
His Instagram became a curated gallery of fatherhood. The pinned post, still there after two years, was a shaky video of him, his face blotchy with tears, holding our tiny, swaddled daughter.
"I'm a dad," he sobbed to the camera, his smile impossibly wide. "I never thought… Just look at her. My little princess. My Piper."
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The End