A Mask of Love and Lies Chinese Drama

At eight months pregnant, I thought my husband Derek and I had it all. A perfect home, a loving marriage, and our miracle son on the way.

Then, while tidying his office, I found his vasectomy certificate. It was dated a year ago, long before we even started trying.

Confused and panicked, I rushed to his office, only to hear laughter from behind the door. It was Derek and his best friend, Edison.

"I can't believe she still hasn't figured it out," Edison chuckled. "She walks around with that giant belly, glowing like some kind of saint."

My husband's voice, the one that whispered words of love to me every night, was full of contempt. "Patience, my friend. The bigger she gets, the bigger the fall. And the bigger my payout."

He said our entire marriage was a cruel game to destroy me, all for his precious adopted sister, Else.

They were even running a bet on who the real father was.

"So, the bet is still on?" Edison asked. "My money's still on me."

My baby was a trophy in their sick contest. The world tilted on its axis. The love I felt, the family I was building—it was all a sham.

In that moment, a cold, clear decision formed in the ruins of my heart.

I pulled out my phone, my voice surprisingly steady as I called a private clinic.

"Hello," I said. "I need to schedule an appointment. For a termination."

The heavy weight of my belly was a constant, welcome reminder. Eight months. Only a few more weeks until I held my son. I ran a hand over the tight curve, a smile on my face. Derek and I had everything. A beautiful home, a life people envied, and soon, a family.

I was organizing Derek's home office, a nesting instinct I couldn't fight. Tucked away in the back of his desk drawer, beneath a stack of old tax returns, my fingers brushed against a thick, folded paper. It felt official.

Curiosity got the better of me. I pulled it out.

It was a medical certificate. A vasectomy certificate.

My breath caught in my throat. I read the name: Derek Hubbard. Then I looked at the date. It was from a year ago, six months before we even started trying for a baby.

The room started to spin. My hands trembled as I held the paper. It didn't make sense. I was eight months pregnant. This had to be a mistake, a joke, some kind of misunderstanding.

The certificate felt cold in my hand, a stark contrast to the warmth of the life inside me. I was pregnant. I had felt him kick just this morning. This paper was a lie. It had to be.

A wave of nausea and panic washed over me. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic, painful rhythm. This couldn't be real. My perfect life, my loving husband, our baby… was it all a lie?

I needed to see him. I needed to hear him explain this.

I grabbed my keys, my mind a blank slate of confusion and fear. I had to get to his office. Now.

The drive was a blur. I don't remember the traffic or the turns I made. All I could see was that date on the certificate, mocking me, burning a hole in my memory.