The Mistress Never Expected This Genius Baby

Eighteen times. Eighteen different lives, always short, always brutal. A soul stuck on a cosmic, deadly loop. After the eighteenth go-around—landing me here, in the womb of a woman destined to be the vicious female antagonist—I developed a severe case of deep-seated paranoia. While other fetuses drifted peacefully in the amniotic fluid, I was inverted, my tiny fists clutching my umbilical cord, maintaining constant, exhausting vigilance. Other babies greedily sucked up their mother’s nutrition; I sampled, spat out, and only dared to absorb the bare minimum once I confirmed it was safe. I had almost made it. I was so close to full term, already tasting freedom, when Brooks—my father—made his move. His Innocent Muse, the girl he should have married, had returned. At a society gala, my beautiful, heartbreakingly naive mother, Blair, was chatting and smiling, gently stroking her bump. Inside, I was thrashing in panic. [“No! No, don’t drink that! There’s poison in the champagne! I don’t want to die, not again!”] When Mom—Blair—finally turned to face the Muse, Dahlia, and began to utter a familiar, fatal threat, I went into full-scale emergency mode. [“No! Mom, stop! For God’s sake, she’s recording you! She’s baiting you so she can run to Dad and claim you’re weaponizing your pregnancy to bully her! We are going to die!”] My desperate, frantic silent screams finally broke through. The competitive glint in Mom’s eyes softened just enough. She pressed a hand to her swollen stomach, feigning a sudden, sharp pain, and let out a soft, defeated sigh. “Oh, baby,” she murmured, her voice laced with an exhaustion that was too real. “You can’t always imagine the worst.” But in the very next heartbeat, my blind, self-serving father strode through the double doors.

1 “Blair, Brooks loves only me. Can’t you just let us be?” Dahlia, the picture of delicate victimhood, lifted her chin across the cafe table, her eyes teary and defiant. She was clearly waiting for the predictable scene: Mom throwing a check across the table or, better yet, a cup of scalding coffee. But Mom was busy executing my plan, clutching her stomach and playing the part of the suffering mother-to-be. I was busy directing the performance from my cozy, high-stakes theater. [“Mom, Mom, bite your lip just a little harder! You need to look paler. And now, the fake blood capsule I made you buy! Do it now!”] Mom gave a low, exasperated chuckle, a sound that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Honestly, baby, I really think you’re being dramatic. She’s a glorified gold-digger looking for a payout. I’ll just write a check and be done with it…” But the moment was over. The coffee shop door swung open and Brooks walked in. Before he could take a breath, Dahlia, with a lightning-fast, practiced move, grabbed the nearest coffee cup and dumped it over her own pristine, white dress. “Ah! It burns!” she shrieked, a sound of theatrical agony, and instantly launched herself into Brooks’s arms. “Oh, Brooks, Serena just can’t bear to see us happy, can she?” Serena. God, she always used that formal, icy tone. My scumbag father’s eyes immediately hardened with rage and concern. He gently set Dahlia aside and stormed towards my mother. “Blair Easton,” he snarled, fury building in his voice. “You apologize to Dahlia, right now!” [“Now, Mom! NOW!”] The instant his hand reached out to grab her, my mother performed a breathtaking maneuver. She didn’t fall; she slid from the leather seat like a fish escaping a net. A thick, crimson stain blossomed beneath her on the polished floor. Mom grabbed her belly, her face a mask of ashen terror. “Help… help me, please.” Bystanders immediately stopped talking, their gazes shifting from Dahlia’s damp dress to the horrified, accusing stare they leveled at Brooks. Brooks’s eyes widened, his face draining of color. He took a terrified step back. “It wasn’t me! I didn’t touch her! Blair, what the hell is wrong with you?” At my silent command, Mom’s eyes fluttered dramatically, and she went limp, fully passing out. Brooks forgot about Dahlia, guilt flooding his face. He scooped Mom up, tearing out of the cafe and towards the private hospital. Dahlia was left standing alone, a steaming cup of coffee in her hand and a look of pure, baffled fury hardening her features.

At the hospital, the private physician confirmed Mom was experiencing stress-related spotting and required absolute bed rest. We slept, deeply and peacefully, for the first time in weeks. When Mom’s eyes fluttered open, Brooks was standing there, the very picture of remorse. Behind him stood Grandpa Robert and Grandma Eloise, the heads of the family, with Grandpa using his silver-tipped cane to viciously strike Brooks’s leg. “Brooks Hawthorne,” Grandpa Robert bellowed, “You are an utter disgrace!” Mom opened her mouth, ready to let the complaints spill out. I panicked. [“No, no, no! Mom, tell them it wasn’t his fault! Forgive him! We need the pity!”] She caught herself, the impending tirade transforming into a perfectly modulated, wounded sigh. “Mother, Father, please don’t hit Brooks. It wasn’t his fault. It was mine. I… I was foolish and almost lost the baby.” She tilted her head, a tear tracing a path down her cheek. “And don’t blame Ms. Lowe either. She didn’t say anything to me, I promise.” My father’s attempts at a defensive sputter died in his throat. He ran through a spectrum of colors—red with guilt, pale with fear, and finally settling on a sickly green of confused, overwhelming gratitude. “Blair,” he whispered, leaning in. “I swear I will make this up to you.” Grandma Eloise sighed, her stern face softening with concern. She immediately produced documents. “This is for the child,” she said, handing Mom the transfer papers. “Five percent of Hawthorne Industries stock, effective immediately. For the baby’s trust.” Dahlia Lowe’s name wasn’t mentioned again. Brooks’s subsequent tidal wave of guilt was our reward. He transformed into the picture of a devoted husband, attending to Mom’s every need. Inside, I fist-pumped my tiny hands. Yes! “One more day alive, Mom. We did it.” 2 Mom spent two blissful weeks recovering in the hospital. The day she was discharged, Brooks was there, beaming, to take us home. But, as always, an accident was waiting to happen. Halfway there, Dahlia’s tearful call came through. She was being “stalked by suspicious men.” “Brooks,” her voice trembled over the speaker, “I know I shouldn’t bother you and Blair, but I just don’t know who else to call.” Brooks glanced nervously at Mom, expecting the usual jealous outburst. He was certain she’d forbid him from leaving. But Mom simply smiled. “You need to go to Dahlia, honey. Her safety is more important. I can just take a cab home.” Brooks paused, a flicker of shame crossing his face, but he didn’t argue. He pulled over and opened the door for her. “I’ll be back to pick you up, Blair. Promise.” Mom stepped out, a poignant look of bitter resignation on her face until Brooks’s car was completely out of sight. Then, she sneered, signaled a sleek black car waiting behind a hedge, and got in. “My treasure,” she said, stroking her bump as the car pulled away, “how did you know Brooks would get called away?” Because in the last life, you got hit by a car while walking home. And the life before that, he left you, Dahlia pretended to be assaulted, and the subsequent rage led to a forced miscarriage. I proudly tilted my embryonic head. [“Just trust me, Mom. My gut instinct is finely tuned to impending doom.”] We headed downtown, where Mom spent two hours with Grandma Eloise’s corporate credit card, treating herself to a therapeutic shopping spree. Only then did she return to the manor. She tossed the bags of designer clothes into her walk-in closet, picked up her phone, and called Brooks. She called three times. He finally picked up on the fourth. From the other end, I heard a soft, feminine moan and the muffled sound of a man’s voice that was too deep, too hurried. Brooks was definitely up to no good. Mom’s jaw clenched, but my warning cry snapped her back into character. She forced a weak, breathy tone. “It’s nothing, Brooks. Just calling to say I’m home safe. I know you’re busy, so please don’t worry about me.” Brooks froze. “Blair, Serena, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to forget you. Dahlia wasn’t feeling well, so I had to stay with her.” “Oh, darling, of course. Ms. Lowe’s health is much more important.” Two hours later, Brooks showed up with a gift: the Hawthorne Ruby Suite, a ridiculously opulent set of vintage jewelry valued in the millions. “Blair, there’s… there’s one more thing I need to talk to you about.” Dahlia, dressed in an angelic white cotton dress, glided out from behind him. “Brooks’s place is getting vandalized. I’ve been scared to death.” “Sister,” she cooed, her eyes wide with false innocence. “It’s only for a few days. Please forgive the intrusion.” 3 Brooks couldn’t meet Mom’s eyes. He settled Dahlia into the guest suite, directly adjacent to our master bedroom on the second floor. Dahlia shot a small, triumphant, overtly provocative look at Mom while practically pressing herself against Brooks’s chest. Panic. I hammered frantically against the wall of the womb. [“Mom, don’t rise to the bait! We need a counter-move. Do this…”] When Brooks finally joined Mom in the master suite that night, she dropped the bombshell. “I think we should sleep separately for a while, honey.” Guilt quickly curdled into Brooks’s signature flash of defensive anger. “Blair, what is this? I’m just being charitable to a friend. What do you think I’m doing?” Mom deliberately exposed her bandaged foot. “Don’t be silly, darling. I just scraped my foot today. Plus, the baby has been restless. I’m up for midnight snacks, and I don’t want to disturb you. I think I’ll move into the first-floor nanny suite for a few nights.” Following my instructions, Mom moved down to the spacious first-floor suite, which had its own kitchenette and a large TV. She set up the security monitor feed and gave me a confused look. “Baby, why did we have to move down here?” A few hours later, the answer appeared on the monitor: Dahlia, sneaking out of her room with a full bottle of cooking oil, which she expertly distributed across the main staircase. “Wow,” Mom whispered, her eyes wide with impressed disgust. “She’s so calculated.” Dahlia knew Mom, the constantly hungry pregnant woman, would be the first one down for breakfast. Now, with us on the first floor, who would be the unfortunate person to go down first? I yawned contentedly. [“Go back to sleep, Mom. Show time is in the morning.”] Sure enough, the next morning, a high-pitched, desperate squeal echoed through the house. Brooks, rushing out for a crucial client meeting, stepped directly into Dahlia’s oil slick. He executed a full-body, rapid-fire slip-and-slide, culminating in a grotesque tumble down the entire flight of stairs. “My leg! Ahhh! My leg!” Dahlia, fearing Mom’s intervention, had wisely put on noise-canceling headphones. It was a full five minutes before Mom, walking slowly as a pregnant woman should, appeared in the doorway. “Oh, darling! Did you fall?” Mom asked, feigning concern. Brooks’s client meeting was history. His left leg was in a full cast, and he was livid. “Blair, someone poured oil on the stairs! There’s a saboteur in this house!” Mom clasped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, Brooks, how could you say that? It’s just me, the housekeeper, and sweet Dahlia here. She would never do such a thing.” “Honey, don’t blame other people for losing your footing.” Dahlia, seeing the ambulance speed away, quickly scrambled out of bed, grabbing a bottle of degreaser and frantically scrubbing the stairs. She hadn’t seen who had fallen and assumed her little plot had succeeded. When she found the hospital room, fruit basket in hand, she rushed in. Without a word, she dabbed her eyes with her sleeve. “Sister, I’m so sorry. You should have been more careful. But don’t worry, you can always have another baby… right, Brooks?” She looked up, a triumphant, challenging glint in her eyes—and found herself staring directly into Brooks’s shocked, suspicious face. “Wait, you’re here?” he stammered. “And what was that look?” She floundered, unable to speak. Mom couldn’t help but let out a small, quiet laugh. “Brooks, stop being so paranoid. Dahlia is clearly just worried about you.” Mom ignored Brooks’s mounting suspicion and happily handed over the full-time nursing duties to Dahlia. We, meanwhile, checked into a luxurious resort for a “babymoon.” Mom spent her days doing prenatal yoga, listening to classical music for the baby, and shopping. Occasionally, she’d bring Brooks a takeout container of fried chicken, placing a tiny bandage on her finger to pretend she’d cooked it herself. When Brooks was discharged, we stood at the front door in a scene of forced domestic bliss. Brooks, traumatized by the fall, had already ordered every step of the main staircase to be padded with thick carpeting. Dahlia watched her future opportunities to cause accidents vanish, her teeth audibly grinding. I noticed a subtle movement—she was gently rubbing her own stomach. Uh-oh. This is bad. 4 At Brooks’s insistence, Mom moved back up to the second-floor master suite. Dahlia tried several times to cause trouble, but Mom was unassailable. She ate, slept, and slept some more. She never left the room. Her two housekeepers, hired from Grandma Eloise’s family staff, kept vigilant watch over all the food, ensuring no opportunity for poisoning. Dahlia was furious. A few days later, it was Grandpa Robert’s birthday gala—a high-society event where Brooks would never dare bring his mistress. Mom, wearing a custom-made silk gown with a shawl draped to conceal her advanced pregnancy, looked every inch the perfect corporate wife as she presented the Hawthorne family gift. The room was crowded, and after an hour of forced small talk, Mom was tired. It was then we spotted Dahlia, dressed in a borrowed maid’s uniform, tearfully staring at Brooks from across the room. Mom snorted and started to head for a nearby rest lounge, but my internal sirens went off. [“No! No, Mom, wait! I have a terrible feeling about this room!”] Mom paused. Instead of heading to the lounge, she located her two powerful uncles and had them distract Brooks, plying him with expensive scotch until he was sufficiently incapacitated. Only then did we head to the exclusive family rest area on the upper floor. Sure enough, a few minutes later, Dahlia crept upstairs, carrying a glass of flat ginger ale. She found the bed, where she assumed Mom was heavily sleeping, covered by a plush duvet. Dahlia extinguished the high-end essential oil diffuser by the wall. A cold smirk played on her lips as she doused the duvet with the sticky drink. Then, she snapped her fingers, beckoning two large, seedy men from the shadows. “Get her,” Dahlia hissed, her voice low and venomous. “Let’s see if the Hawthorne family still wants Blair and her little bastard after she’s found like this at her father-in-law’s birthday party.” She backed out, closing the door softly behind her. Then, she ran down the stairs, making a spectacle of her anxiety. Twenty minutes later, a crowd was gathered outside the room, led by the frowning grandparents and several esteemed guests. “It’s this door,” Dahlia cried, pointing a trembling finger. “I passed by a moment ago and heard… strange noises. I’m worried that Mrs. Hawthorne might be in danger!” Facing the grandparents’ skeptical stares, she looked down. “I know you don’t approve of me, but I love Brooks. And the baby she’s carrying is still Brooks’s. I worry about them both.” Grandpa Robert hesitated, then reached for the doorknob, concerned for Blair’s safety. Dahlia couldn’t help but let a triumphant smile escape. Her eyes were wide, the thrill of victory practically spilling out. At that exact moment, the door next to theirs swung open. Mom stood there, freshly showered and perfectly composed. “What is all the commotion about?” Dahlia froze. Just then, Grandpa Robert pushed the door open. A deafening chorus of gasps, shouts, and terrified screams erupted from the crowd.