My daughter cut into her gender reveal cake and immediately started crying.

At 7:30 PM, my car pulled into the driveway of Chloe and Spencer’s two-story suburban home on Oak Street.

The house was dark. Spencer’s silver BMW was not in the garage, but I knew better than to assume we were safe. I kept my phone in my hand with Detective Miller’s precinct extension on speed dial, while Sarah’s private investigator, Ray, parked his dark sedan across the street to keep watch.

Chloe unlocked the front door.

The house smelled of expensive cedar polish and Spencer’s sandalwood cologne. It was a house that looked like a magazine spread—immaculate hardwood floors, perfectly arranged furniture, and walls adorned with framed vacation photos of a couple that looked impossibly happy.

Every single photo was a lie.

Chloe walked straight past the living room, heading up the carpeted stairs toward Spencer’s private study at the end of the hall.

"Chloe," I said, following close behind her. "What are you looking for?"

"The black steel safe under his desk," Chloe replied flatly. "He locked it three months ago. He told me it contained confidential tax filings for his company."

She walked into the dimly lit study, rounded the heavy mahogany desk, and knelt down beside a floor-anchored digital safe.

"Do you know the combination?" I asked.

"He thinks I don't," Chloe said, her fingers hovering over the electronic keypad. "He thinks I never pay attention to his passwords. He used my first miscarriage date—04-12-19."

My heart ached with a sudden, sharp pang of disgust.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

CLICK.

The heavy steel door of the safe swung open.

Inside were stacks of bound hundred-dollar bills, three passports, a series of velvet jewelry boxes, and a thick blue leather ledger.

Chloe ignored the money and the jewels. She reached straight for the blue ledger and pulled it into her lap.

I knelt down beside her as she opened the first page.

It wasn't a ledger for corporate taxes.

It was a meticulously organized personal record of every single financial transaction Spencer had executed over the past four years—written in his neat, microscopic handwriting.

Page after page listed names, dates, and figures:

May 14, 2021 — Dr. M. Aris (Fertility Clinic) — $12,000 Cash (Off-record).

August 22, 2021 — Hormonal Suppressants (Compound Pharmacy) — $1,800 Cash.

January 10, 2022 — Dr. M. Aris — Special Consultation — $15,000 Cash.

My hand flew to my mouth. "Chloe... what is this?"

Chloe’s eyes scanned the entries, her face turning paler and paler until she looked like she was going to throw up on the floor.

"My miscarriages, Mom," Chloe whispered, her voice dropping into a horrifying, hollow rattle. "My miscarriages weren't accidents."

"What?!" I shrieked.

Chloe pointed a trembling finger at an entry dated November 2022:

November 3, 2022 — Dr. Aris Confirmation: Fetus gender confirmed FEMALE at 8 weeks. Administered progesterone antagonist compound via weekly fertility injections per agreement. Pregnancy terminated naturally November 11.

"Oh my God," I breathed, tears instantly blinding my eyes. "Oh my God, Chloe... no..."

Spencer hadn't just been waiting for a boy.

Whenever Chloe had gotten pregnant in the past, he had secretly paid a corrupt fertility doctor to run early genetic screenings. And whenever the fetus was confirmed to be a girl, he had covertly sabotaged her pregnancy using hormonal antagonists disguised as routine prenatal support injections—so he wouldn't waste his one chance at a male heir on a daughter.

"He killed my babies," Chloe whispered. Her hand clutched the edge of the mahogany desk so hard her nails left deep white impressions in her skin. "He killed two of my babies because they were girls."

Before I could wrap my arms around her, a sharp, metallic sound echoed from the front hallway downstairs.

The heavy oak front door had just clicked open.

Footsteps—heavy, rapid, and frantic—were heading straight toward the stairs.