My Husband Faked Our Child's Death to Marry His Mistress

Synopsis

Eight months pregnant, my husband, Damian, a detective, finally cleared his schedule to accompany me to my first prenatal checkup. We'd barely stepped into the hospital when his secure phone vibrated violently. A name flashed across the screen, a blur, but Damian, usually so calm, panicked instantly. "Anya, red alert, urgent! Another international fugitive has crossed the border. I… I'm so sorry…" He was frantic, his voice carrying the undeniable authority of his position. With a hurried apology, he rushed off. As I watched his SUV speed away, my fingers crumpled the ultrasound report in my hand. Hailing a taxi with my heavy belly, I quickly told the driver, "Follow that SUV." A "red alert" for a fugitive? What a pathetic lie. My dad's intelligence agency hadn't received any such notice, and Damian, a regular detective who usually just assisted with cases, wouldn't be chasing some high-priority target. I wanted to see who this "boss" was, giving him such urgent "orders." As soon as I muttered the words "catching him," the taxi driver floored it, catching up to Damian's car. I had no idea who Damian was going to meet, but a terrifying gut feeling made my skin crawl. To my surprise, after several twists and turns, the car pulled up to the entrance of the police department's private community. I let out a long breath of relief. At least it wasn't a hotel. This was a residential area provided for high-ranking officers by the department, and Damian had been assigned a villa here too. Before my first pregnancy, I'd lived there briefly for a few months; the neighbors were always friendly. But as I spotted a fleet of luxury cars and festive decorations from afar, I felt a pang of confusion. Was today some special