The mistress arrived at the gala on my husband's arm, wearing my dress and my late grandmother's bracelet. Everyone called her "Mrs. Albright," while I woke up drugged at home. My son took the microphone in front of 300 guests and said, "Now you can support my father yourself." But they still had no idea about the 68-million-dollars file waiting to be opened.

My lungs forgot how to breathe as I stared at the horrifying text message on my bright screen. There was absolutely no logical way my teenage son could be the father of Brenda's newborn child. I immediately called Luke into my private office and shoved the glowing phone toward his face. Luke adjusted his glasses and studied the blurry photograph with cold and analytical precision. He swore to me that he had never even been alone in the same room as that wretched woman. I believed my son completely, but the physical resemblance in the baby's eyes was absolutely undeniable. We needed to find out who sent the anonymous message and what they wanted from our broken family. Luke connected my cell phone to his encrypted laptop and began tracing the hidden digital signal. The trace bounced across dozens of fake proxy servers located deep in South America and Eastern Europe. Suddenly, the computer screen flashed a bright red warning as a massive firewall blocked his efforts. Someone with highly advanced, military grade technology was actively protecting the sender's true location. The heavy antique phone on my desk abruptly rang, shattering the tense silence in the room. I answered it cautiously, hearing a heavily distorted and robotic voice on the other end of the line. The voice demanded fifty million dollars by midnight or the scandalous birth certificate would be released. Our corporate stock prices would completely crash if the world believed my son fathered his father's child. The caller laughed cruelly, stating that the media would absolutely devour the disgusting family drama. I slammed the phone down and told Luke we were going to the state penitentiary immediately. We needed to confront Brenda directly and force her to reveal the truth about this mysterious infant. Our armored vehicle sped down the highway, pushing through the heavy evening rain to reach the prison. We arrived at the maximum security facility, only to find the entire prison yard on a full tactical lockdown. Heavily armed guards blocked the main gates, flashing bright spotlights directly into our eyes. The pale prison warden walked out to the parking lot and told us we were far too late. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and revealed that Brenda had been found unresponsive in her cell. She was officially pronounced dead just ten minutes before our car pulled up to the gates.