Stealing My Husbands DNA Backfired

Start Reading

My best friend posed as a clinic nurse during my husband Wyatts annual physical, stole his genetic material, and successfully impregnated herself.

She did it all for one reason: the dying words of our family patriarch, Charles Stafford. On his deathbed, the multi-billionaire had declared that whichever woman bore his first great-grandson would inherit his entire ten-billion-dollar empire.

But I had severe fertility issues. Three years of marriage, endless hormone injections, and failed IVF cycles had left my body bruised and my womb empty. Miranda, my closest friend, had spent those years comforting me, brewing holistic teas and praying over my belly. Then, she turned around, checked herself into the hospital suite directly adjacent to Charless hospice room, and gave birth to a baby boy right there.

"Fiona, I did this for your own good," she had told me, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. "The Stafford legacy has been passed down through single sons for generations. I couldn't let the line end with you."

"And besides, I'm a traditional woman. Wyatt took my innocence that night, so he needs to take responsibility."

"As for you... if you agree to walk away from this marriage with nothing, I might still let the baby call you Aunt Fiona."

Her face had been alive with triumph as she slapped the prenatal DNA test report directly onto my face.

I stared at the paperwork scattered across the floor, my eyes catching the bold, undeniable print:

The genetic markers confirm a biological father-son relationship between Wyatt Stafford and the male infant.

Everyone in the room expected me to shatter.

But as my eyes drifted to a small, easily overlooked line of text in the bottom corner of the report, a slow smile crept onto my face.

The DNA report fluttered to the ground, scattering across the polished marble floor.

At Grandpa Charless funeral, the atmosphere was heavy with grief. Everyone wore stark, somber black, except for my former best friend, Miranda. She stood in the center of the room in a vibrant, blood-red designer dress, cradling a baby boy who was barely a few days old.

Her smile stretched so wide it nearly reached her ears. She looked less like a mourner and more like a woman who had just won the lottery.

"Once the pregnancy was confirmed, I moved straight into the Stafford estate to rest," Miranda said, her voice carrying across the quiet room. "You shouldn't blame Wyatt, Fiona. After all, the boy in my arms is the only male heir to the Stafford legacy. It's only right that he claims his birthright."

The air grew deathly still. The mourning guests turned their heads, their eyes darting between us, waiting for my tears, my rage, my collapse.

Instead, I looked at the tiny font in the bottom corner of the page and smiled.

Suddenly, Mirandas phone chimed. She picked it up, putting it on speaker. My mother-in-law, Beatrice, squealed with delight from the other end.

"Miranda, darling! Is it true? The Stafford line is secured? I have a grandson?"

Miranda cast a smug, lingering look in my direction. She spent several minutes cooing about how beautiful and perfect her son was before hanging up with an arrogant tilt of her chin.

I looked at her, my voice entirely flat. "That child will never inherit a single dime of the Stafford estate."

Miranda let out a sharp, mocking laugh, clearly assuming I was just grasping at straws. "Fiona, have you let your jealousy drive you mad?"

"The DNA test is right there. It proves, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Wyatt is Dylans biological father."

"According to the terms of the trust, Dylan is the sole legal heir. If you pack your bags and leave quietly now, I might still let him recognize you as his godmother."

An hour later, Beatrice burst through the doors of the memorial service, her coat half-falling off her shoulders in her rush. The moment she saw the infant's face, she let out a breathless gasp.

"He looks just like him. Oh, he looks exactly like Wyatt did as a baby."

Anxious that I might snap and harm the child, Beatrice quickly gestured for two security guards to stand between me and the baby.

"This child is our crown jewel," Beatrice declared, her eyes watering. "We must protect him at all costs."

She turned to Miranda, taking her hands with a warmth she had never once shown me. "Miranda, sweetie, youre still recovering. Sit down, don't strain yourself. Ive already summoned the family estate lawyers. We are going to transfer the trust into your name immediately!"

Then, she cast a cold, venomous look in my direction.

"Unlike some people, who couldn't even manage to produce a single egg in three whole years."

"If I were you, Fiona, Id pack up my things and slip out the back door before we have you thrown out. Save yourself whatever dignity you have left."

But I didn't move. My gaze remained fixed on the infant cradled in the nanny's arms.

"Don't bother calling the lawyers," I said softly. "Because she isn't getting a dime."

Miranda looked me up and down, her expression turning into one of pitying disgust. "Fiona, accept reality. You're barren because of your own bad karma. Back in college, you practically threw yourself at Wyatt. You walked around in those tight slip dresseswhat kind of respectable woman dresses like that? It's no wonder your body is broken."

"Only a decent, traditional woman like me is fit to carry the Stafford bloodline."

The guests whispered among themselves, their eyes lingering on my clothes, my face, my posture. This was a multi-billion-dollar empire at stake. The sheer scale of the inheritance made everyone in the room hungry for a piece of the drama.

"This is a funeral. What is going on here?"

My father-in-law, Richard Stafford, strode into the hall. The moment his eyes fell on Miranda, his stern face softened into a warm, patriarchal smile.

"Miranda, you made it. The lawyers will be here shortly to finalize the trust transition." He signaled to a server. "Bring over the birds nest tonic I had prepared for her. Drink up, dear."

"Yes, yes, you are the savior of our family," Beatrice chimed in, hovering over her. "We need to build your strength back up. Once the paperwork is signed, were sending you to a private recovery villa in Aspen for six months."

Beatrice lovingly spooned the warm tonic, holding it up to Miranda's lips.

Watching the three of them play happy family was almost sickening.

"Richard, Beatrice," I spoke up, my voice cutting through their domestic bliss. "Lest you forget, Wyatt and I are still legally married. Aren't you popping the champagne a bit early? What if she doesn't qualify for the trust?"

Miranda choked on her drink. She pushed Beatrice aside, clutching the baby tightly to her chest as she glared at me.

"So what if you're married? The Staffords would never keep a barren, loose woman in the family. Who knows what you're doing when you stay out until ten tonight? You probably ruined your own body with your lifestyle."

"When my son grows up, I'll make sure he never associates with women like you."

Beatrice helped Miranda sit down, sneering at me. "This baby is a Stafford, through and through. Look at those eyes. Hes the spitting image of Wyatt."

Mirandas confidence flared up again. "Fiona, I get it. You're bitter because I gave Wyatt a son. But lying to yourself like this? Youve clearly lost your mind."

Every word out of her mouth was a calculated, baseless lie, but it was enough to catch the attention of the extended Stafford relatives standing nearby.

"Did Wyatt really marry a woman like that? No wonder they couldn't conceive."

"Thank God Miranda stepped up, or the Stafford name would have died out."

"But wait, why is Fiona so confident? Is there a chance the baby isn't actually his?"

Hearing the whispers, Mirandas eyes welled with tears. She grabbed Beatrices arm, looking utterly helpless.

"Mom, if anyone doubts me, they can look at his face. But if it makes everyone feel better, Ill happily do another DNA test right now. I just want Wyatts family to have peace of mind."

She looked so fragile, as though she might faint from the sheer weight of the accusation.

Beatrices face contorted with maternal fury, her voice rising to a screech. "I dare anyone to make my grandson go through that again! Look at his nose, his browhe is Wyatt's child! We don't need any more tests. This child is a Stafford, and that is final!"

I had loved Beatrice like my own mother. For three years, she was the one who held my hand after every negative pregnancy test, whispering that we would find a way. Now, her eyes held nothing but cold, transactional disgust.

Richard had finally had enough. He gestured to the security guards. "Get her out of here. She has done nothing but upset a recovering mother since she walked in."

"Get your hands off her."

I took a deep breath, looking directly at my in-laws. "You really think Miranda's son is going to inherit the estate? I'm telling you, even when the lawyers get here, she won't get a single penny."

The room fell into a dead silence.

Richard slammed his cane against the marble floor, his face flushed with rage. "Get her out! I don't want to see this lunatic in my sight ever again!"

The two guards stepped forward, grabbing my arms. I felt a surge of adrenaline, twisting my body and pulling away with a fierce, quiet intensity.

"Don't touch me. I'm pregnant."

Reaching into my designer bag, I pulled out a folded piece of paper and laid it flat on the table.

There it was, in clear, clinical black and white: Gestation: 12 weeks.

Richard and Beatrice exchanged a brief, stunned look before bursting into cold laughter.

Miranda snatched the paper from the table, scanning it quickly before letting out a sharp giggle.

"So what if you're pregnant?"

"You're barely three months along. You don't even know if it's a boy or a girl. How do you expect to compete with Dylan? My son is already here."

"Today, I am going to make sure you see exactly what is written in that trust."

Thirty minutes later, the family estate lawyer stepped out of a black sedan and walked into the hall. Every eye in the room was locked onto his leather briefcase.

He unzipped the bag, pulled out the official trust documents, and read the crucial clause aloud to the gathered family.

"In accordance with the late Charles Stafford's final wishes, being of sound mind and body... the entirety of the Stafford trust shall be transferred directly to the biological mother of Wyatt Stafford's firstborn son."

Miranda practically tore the document from the lawyer's hands, shoving it in my face.

"Did you hear that, Fiona? The mother of his firstborn son! Even if you somehow manage to carry a boy to term, hell be nothing but a shadow to my Dylan!"

Beatrice and Richard glared at me as if I were a stain on their pristine floors.

"I heard it. Loud and clear," I said, my voice steady as I looked at the phrase mother of his firstborn son, and then shifted my gaze to Miranda's pale face.

"Let's see how long you keep that smile when you realize you don't qualify."

Beatrice wrapped a protective arm around Miranda, while Richards finger practically poked my nose. "You are a bitter, spiteful woman. You can't have your own, so you try to curse Mirandas child?"

"Do you want our family line to end with you? This is a binding legal trust, Fiona! Not a game!"

Wyatt's older sister, Evelyn, stepped forward, her voice dripping with artificial sweet sympathy. "Fiona, we ignored your little side-adventures while Wyatt was away, but this is a family matter. You can't just throw tantrums. No matter how jealous you are of Miranda, this behavior is beneath you."

With a few sentences, they had painted me as a loose, envious wife who was desperate to cling to power.

The murmurs from the relatives grew louder.

"I knew it. She probably knows Wyatt's heart isn't with her anymore."

"The Staffords treated her like royalty, and this is how she repays them?"

"She should just sign the divorce papers and spare herself the embarrassment."

My hands clenched into tight fists, my knuckles turning white.

I took out my phone and dialed the family's private physician. "Dr. Fletcher, I need you to bring your diagnostic equipment to the Stafford memorial hall immediately. Run a full physical panel on Mirandas baby."

Before I could finish, Richard swung his hand, knocking the phone out of my grip. It clattered against the marble, the screen shattering instantly.

"What diagnostic panel? My grandson is perfectly healthy!" Richard roared. "How can you be so malicious? Wishing illness on a newborn baby!"

My hand throbbed where his cane had brushed my wrist, but I kept my voice perfectly calm. "Once Dr. Fletcher runs the panel, you'll understand exactly what I mean."

Richards face was dark with fury. "Fine! Let's let Dr. Fletcher do his job. But I swear to God, Fiona, if that baby is healthy, you are finished."

Thirty minutes later, Dr. Fletcher arrived, flanked by two medical assistants carrying portable diagnostic cases.

I pointed directly at the infant in Mirandas arms. "A complete, head-to-toe clinical evaluation. Don't miss a single detail."

Beatrice anxiously grabbed the doctor's sleeve. "Dr. Fletcher, there's nothing wrong with his heart or lungs, is there?"

Dr. Fletcher didn't answer immediately. He took the baby gently from the nanny, placing him on the portable sterile table as his assistants set up the monitors.

The room was so quiet you could hear the hum of the medical equipment.

Finally, Dr. Fletcher removed his stethoscope. "His cardiovascular and respiratory functions are perfectly normal. There are no signs of distress."

Miranda let out a long, theatrical sigh of relief.

"I knew it," she gloated, looking around the room. "During my pregnancy, I followed an elite holistic regimen. I drank organic paternal alkalizing enzymes every single day to ensure his health. Richard even helped by maintaining a strict alkaline hydration diet for his own biological output. We spared no expense for this child."

Beatrice clutched her chest, letting out a massive sigh of relief.

Richard turned on me, his hand swinging fast and hard.

Slap!

The force of the blow sent a ringing sound echoing through my ears.

"Fiona! I have tolerated your presence out of respect for your three years in this family, but you have pushed me too far!" Richard spat. "My grandson is healthy. If you dare utter another curse against him, the Stafford family will ruin you."

He threw a set of divorce papers onto the table.

"Sign them. And get out."

My cheek burned with a sharp, throbbing pain, but the coldness in my chest was far worse.

"I won't sign," I said, holding his gaze. "Not until we run another DNA test."

Beatrice lost her temper completely. "You lunatic! The baby has Wyatt's eyes, Wyatt's nosedo you think I don't know what my own son looked like?"

Mirandas eyes flashed with venom. She lunged forward, grabbing my shoulders with a iron grip.

"You think I faked the DNA test? You think everyone is as manipulative as you are?" she hissed. "Fine. If you want to play this game, let's play."

She turned to Dr. Fletcher, her voice trembling with rage. "Run the test. Right now!"

Then, she leaned in close, whispering in my ear like a demon. "But when the results come back and confirm Dylan is Wyatt's son... you will abort that mistake in your belly, sign the papers, and disappear from this city forever."

None of the Staffords raised a single objection.

The physical pain on my face was nothing compared to the deep ache in my chest. I looked at these people, realizing that if I backed down now, Wyatt would return to find his life completely stolen, bound to a child who couldn't even inherit the legacy they were fighting for.

Before I could say another word, Evelyn grabbed my arm, dragging me toward the adjoining private medical room. "Let's go. I want to see your face when the truth comes out."

Dr. Fletcher, sensing the volatile atmosphere, quietly gathered the samples. A security guard rushed to Wyatts private quarters to retrieve his toothbrush for the paternal swab.

The wait was agonizingly quiet. The Stafford elders sat in a row, staring at me as if I were a criminal awaiting sentencing.

Wyatts aunt leaned forward, a cruel smirk on her lips. "I hope you have your bags packed, dear."

Finally, the diagnostic machine let out a sharp, cold beep.

The printer began to hum, spitting out pages of data.

Dr. Fletcher picked up the primary report. At the very top, the text read: Paternal match confirmed: 99.9% probability of relationship between Dylan Stafford and Wyatt Stafford.

Beatrice snatched the paper from his hands before he could even speak.

Seeing the results, she let out a loud, triumphant laugh. "Look at this! This is my grandson! The true heir!"

She paraded the document around the room, showing it to every relative.

Richard beamed, cradling the infant and rocking him back and forth.

Evelyn grabbed my wrist, pulling me toward the door. "The car is waiting. Were going to the clinic to get rid of that baby of yours right now."

"Let go of me!" I struggled, twisting my wrists to break her grip. This was the baby I had prayed for over three long years. I wasn't going to let them touch him.

"You insulted the savior of our family," Evelyn sneered, her grip tightening. "An abortion is the least you can do to apologize."

I lunged forward, biting down hard on Evelyn's arm. She shrieked, releasing her hold.

"His child isn't what you think!" I screamed, turning toward Dr. Fletcher. "Look at the bottom of the page, Dr. Fletcher! The additional findings!"

"Keep quiet!" Miranda yelled from behind me, shoving me hard. My head clipped the edge of the car door frame, and my vision blurred.

But I ignored the pain, keeping my eyes fixed on Dr. Fletcher. He was my only hope.

Dr. Fletcher looked at me, seeing the absolute desperation in my eyes. Slowly, he reached down and picked up the discarded pages of the medical report.

As his eyes scanned the text at the bottom of the sheet, his breath caught.

"Wait! Stop!" he yelled, his voice cracking with panic.

"Don't touch her!"

He ran toward the car, banging on the window. "We cannot abort this pregnancy! This baby is our only hope!"

"Nobody leaves!"

The driver put the car in park. Richard walked over, his brow furrowed in annoyance. "Dr. Fletcher, you ran the test yourself. What could possibly be the issue?"

"Dylan is the sole heir to the Stafford legacy!"

Dr. Fletcher swallowed hard, his face completely pale as he handed the report to Richard.

"I think you should read this before making any decisions, sir."

Richard snatched the paper with a scoff. "Let's see what ridiculous excuse shes come up with now."

But the moment his eyes hit the bottom of the page, his expression froze.