My Mother Chose Her Exs Daughter Over Me

I nursed my husband back from a coma, pregnant with the child I thought would complete our perfect life. Then his ex-girlfriend reappeared, also claiming to be pregnant with his baby.

During a staged kidnapping, he made his choice.

He offered me and our unborn child to the kidnappers in exchange for her.

He watched me fall, saw the blood staining the concrete, and walked away to save the woman who was lying to him.

He thought he was leaving me to die.

But I survived. And the first thing I told my rescuer was, "I'm thinking of changing my baby's father."

Chapter 1

Belen Porter POV:

"I' m thinking of changing my baby' s father."

The words left my mouth before I could stop them, hanging in the quiet space between me and Camden Montoya. They sounded insane. Delusional, even. But the hollow ache in my chest told me they were the most honest thing I' d said in months.

Camden didn' t flinch. He just looked at me, his gaze steady and serious from the other side of the wrought-iron patio table. Years of friendship had taught me to read every nuance in his expression. There was no judgment, no shock, only a quiet, unwavering focus.

"Okay," he said, his voice a low baritone that had always been my anchor. "Tell me what you need."

That was the thing about Camden. He didn't ask "why" or "how." He asked "what."

My phone buzzed on the table, a stark, unwelcome intrusion. A news alert. I didn't need to read it. I knew what it would say. The headline was probably already splashed across every screen in the country: Tech Mogul Gregory Velazquez and Mystery Woman: A Rekindled Flame?

I watched a single, perfect photo load. My husband, Gregory, his arm wrapped protectively around a fragile-looking woman. Her tear-streaked face was buried in his chest, his bespoke suit jacket draped over her thin shoulders. It was a picture of devotion. A picture of a man saving the woman he loved.

The woman he loved was not me.

My phone buzzed again. A text from Camden, even though he was sitting right in front of me.

You don' t have to look at that, Belen.

I forced a smile that felt like cracking glass. "It' s a little late for that."

The image was seared into my mind, a permanent scar on top of the wound that had been ripped open just last night.

The Velazquez Foundation Charity Gala was the social event of the season. I stood beside Gregory, my hand resting on my subtly swelling stomach, a symbol of our perfect life. He was the self-made tech billionaire, the man who had clawed his way up from nothing. I was Belen Porter, the heiress who had stood by him, who had held his hand for months while he lay in a coma, whispering stories of the future we would build.

The charity auction was the night's main event-rare wines, exotic vacations, priceless art. Then, the auctioneer announced a special, final item. Not an object, but a cause. A "humanitarian bid," he called it. The curtains parted, and a spotlight illuminated a woman standing on the stage.

She was thin, almost skeletal, dressed in clothes that were clean but worn. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with a terror that seemed almost theatrical. She was a ghost from a past I had only heard about, a story Gregory had told me in hushed, guilt-ridden tones.

Adrianna Page. His ex-girlfriend from before the money, before the coma, before me.

The auctioneer told a sob story of a woman who had fallen on hard times, a woman who had lost everything and needed a second chance. The starting bid was for a fund to get her back on her feet.

I felt Gregory stiffen beside me. A low, guttural sound escaped his throat. His knuckles were white where he gripped his champagne flute. It was the sound of a man seeing a ghost.