Blurb：
When Victoria Langley’s sterile marriage to Barrett Whitfield implodes, her husband’s mistress Roxanne Sharpe drops a bombshell: a pregnancy claiming Whitfield heirship. But Victoria knows Barrett’s secret—azoospermia makes fatherhood impossible. As Roxanne parades ultrasound photos and paternity tests, the Whitfield dynasty fractures. CEO Victoria built their empire, but now scheming mistress Roxanne weaponizes her "golden heir" against the "barren hen".Betrayed by in-laws Harrison and Esther’s sudden allegiance to Roxanne’s belly, Victoria uncovers layers of deception. Prenatal DNA reports clash with damning medical records. Who’s sabotaging the Langley-Whitfield alliance? From boardroom battles to fertility clinic secrets, this wealthy dynasty’s inheritance war explodes—with a mistress’s pregnancy as the ticking time bomb.
Witness the ultimate showdown between corporate queen Victoria and gold-digging Roxanne in this addictive saga of infertility scandals, twisted paternity tests, and billion-dollar legacies. When loyalty shifts with every ultrasound, even a barren heiress holds lethal cards…
Content：
§01I was arranging a family dinner when my husband's assistant sat down in the seat of honor.
She shot me a sideways glance, her painted lips curling into a sneer before she even spoke. “A hen that can’t lay eggs,” she spat, the words sharp enough to cut through the polite chatter. Get out of the way.
Before I could form a response, she let out a cold, theatrical laugh. "You think you can be a Whitfield wife without producing an heir? The Whitfield fortune will belong to my son, sooner or later!"
My father-in-law, Harrison Whitfield, shot to his feet, his face a thundercloud. He pointed a trembling finger at her.
"Get this lunatic out of my house! The Whitfield name is not for you to drag through the mud!"
But the assistant, Roxanne, merely smiled, a picture of triumphant arrogance. She pulled a folded paper from her designer bag and slapped it onto the polished mahogany table.
"Open your damn eyes and look closely," she purred, her voice dripping with venom. "What I'm carrying in my belly is a Whitfield. The real deal."
Suddenly, my husband, Barrett, rushed forward. Not towards me, but towards her. He wrapped his arms around Roxanne in a tight, ecstatic embrace, shouting for the whole world to hear that he was going to be a father. He called her the savior of the Whitfield dynasty.
My mother-in-law, Esther, whose face had been a mask of disgust moments before, transformed. Her features softened into a grotesque display of adoration. She scurried over, her hands reaching out to touch Roxanne’s stomach, cooing about her "precious grandson," her "little golden goose."
Harrison's expression shifted just as quickly. The rage vanished, replaced by a wide, toothy grin. He praised Roxanne, calling her the family’s benefactor.
I just stood there, frozen.
I remembered it all so clearly. The sterile white walls of the clinic, the somber look on the face of the world’s leading fertility expert. Barrett had azoospermia. The specialist had been unequivocal: he could never, under any circumstances, father a child.
§02
"Victoria, a woman who can’t have children is just a barren hen."
Roxanne Sharpe teetered on her six-inch stilettos, tapping the toe of her shoe against my calf. "Do you have any idea what a waste it is for the Whitfield family to keep a useless hen like you?"
"Mrs. Whitfield," she said, drawing out the title with mocking reverence, "aren't you ashamed to be taking up space?"
"You're the kind of woman who occupies a stall but never shits…"
I clenched my fists, forcing down the inferno rising in my chest. I looked directly at her heavily made-up face. "You're an assistant. Don't you think your reach is extending a little too far? When did the private affairs of the Whitfield family become your business to comment on?"
Three years ago, the Langley family business had been on the brink of collapse. It was the Whitfield family that had bailed us out.
I could still see my father’s face, etched with desperation, as he accepted Harrison Whitfield's terms.
The condition had been simple, brutal. I was to marry his son, Barrett.
"Victoria is brilliant and capable," Harrison had declared at the time. "She is the most suitable choice for a Whitfield wife."
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