My Doctor Told Me I’m Infertile… But My Wife Just Announced She’s Pregnant… What I Discovered…
The Trap at the Vancouver Gala
The three weeks until the gala were the longest of my life.
I played the role of loving husband while wearing a wire.
Every conversation with Jessica was recorded, and every movement tracked.
She became more affectionate as the gala approached.
She’d plan elaborate dinners, surprise me with small gifts, and talk excitedly about the event.
“It’s going to be such a special night,” she said one evening.
“Your first big public event since we got married. Everyone will see us as a family: you, me, and the baby.”
Her hand rested on the prosthetic belly.
She’d become so comfortable with the lie that I wondered if she’d started to believe it herself.
Two days before the gala, Jessica went to her Surrey apartment.
Thomas’s surveillance team followed her.
She stayed for three hours.
When she left, Thomas called me immediately.
“Robert, we’ve got something. After she left, we executed a search warrant.”
“We found a detailed plan in Carlos’s apartment.”
“A plan for what?”
“For the gala. They’ve been coordinating with someone on the catering staff, a woman named Rita Alvarez, who happens to be Carlos’s girlfriend.”
“The plan is to drug your drink with a combination of medications that will trigger a cardiac event.”
“Given your medical history, it would look completely natural.”
“You’d have chest pains, they’d call an ambulance, and you’d have a heart attack on the way to the hospital.”
My hands started shaking.
“The medications they plan to use: benzodiazepines mixed with a calcium channel blocker.”
“They’d be out of your system within hours. With your prostate cancer history, your age—everyone would assume it was natural causes.”
“Jessica would inherit everything.”
“You have to arrest them.”
“We will, but Mr. Chen, we want to catch them in the act.”
“We need Jessica on record attempting to murder you. Otherwise, a good lawyer could argue this was all Carlos and Rita, and that Jessica knew nothing about it.”
“You want me to go to this gala with surveillance everywhere and the drink switched for a harmless substitute?”
“You’d be completely safe, but we need Jessica to go through with the plan.”
“We need her on camera coordinating with Rita. We need her reaction when you don’t collapse. We need her to run, because that’s consciousness of guilt.”
I didn’t sleep the night before the gala.
Jessica laid out my tuxedo, chattering about how handsome I’d look and how proud she was to be attending as Mrs. Chen.
The Vancouver Hotel Ballroom glittered with lights and crystal.
Seven hundred guests in evening wear, a 30-piece orchestra, champagne fountains.
Chen Properties had donated $200,000 to the hospital foundation.
I was scheduled to give remarks before dinner.
Jessica looked stunning in a navy blue gown with strategic ruching over her fake belly.
She held my arm as we made our entrance, smiling at everyone and accepting congratulations about the baby.
“You must be so excited,” people kept saying.
“Over the moon,” Jessica would reply, her hand protectively on her stomach.
Michael was there with Sarah, both of them positioned near the bar where they could watch.
Thomas Riley was in a tuxedo at a corner table, blending in perfectly.
Detective Wong was undercover as a server.
At 7:30, as planned, I went to the bar for a drink.
The bartender, who was actually an undercover officer, handed me a scotch.
From my peripheral vision, I saw Rita Alvarez approaching.
She was in a catering uniform, carrying a tray of champagne flutes.
She stumbled slightly, bumping the bar.
In that moment of manufactured chaos, she reached toward my drink.
“So sorry,” she said, steadying herself.
The bartender immediately swapped my drink for an identical glass filled with iced tea that looked like scotch.
Rita didn’t notice the switch.
I carried my drink back to our table.
Jessica’s eyes tracked me.
She smiled.
“Darling, you look tense. Drink up. You need to relax before your speech.”
I took a sip: plain iced tea.
Twenty minutes passed, then 30.
I saw Jessica checking her watch.
She excused herself to the ladies’ room.
Detective Wong followed.
Through my wire, I heard Jessica’s voice in the bathroom.
“It’s not working. Why isn’t it working?”
A reply I didn’t recognize, presumably Rita’s voice.
“I gave him enough to drop a horse. He should be on the floor by now.”
“Carlos, what do we do?”
Jessica’s voice was higher pitched and stressed.
A man’s voice was also in the bathroom—Carlos must have snuck in.
“We abort. Get your stuff and go. Use the service entrance. I’ve got a car waiting.”
Detective Wong’s voice came through my earpiece.
“We’re moving in. Stay calm.”
I saw Jessica emerge from the bathroom, her face pale.
She walked quickly back to our table and grabbed her clutch purse.
“Darling, I’m not feeling well. I think I need some air.”
“Let me come with you.”
“No!”
Too sharp. She softened her voice.
“No, it’s just the baby making me queasy. I’ll just step outside for a moment. You stay; you have your speech soon.”
She kissed my cheek and walked toward the exit.
I watched as Detective Wong and four uniformed officers intercepted her just before she reached the door.
At the same moment, officers moved in on Rita at the bar and Carlos near the bathrooms.
Jessica tried to run.
She actually kicked off her heels and ran, the prosthetic belly bouncing awkwardly under her gown.
She made it three steps before two officers caught her arms.
The ballroom erupted in shocked whispers.
“Jessica Hartwell, you’re under arrest for attempted murder,” Detective Wong said loudly enough for nearby tables to hear.
“What? No! There’s been a mistake. Robert, tell them!”
I stood up slowly and walked over to where she was being handcuffed.
“Your name isn’t Jessica Hartwell,” I said quietly.
“It’s Sarah Martinez, and I know everything.”
Her face transformed.
The scared, confused expression vanished, replaced by something cold and calculating.
“You can’t prove anything.”
“We can prove all of it: the false identity, the two previous husbands you killed, the money you stole, the fake pregnancy, the drugs you tried to use tonight.”
“We have recordings, witnesses, documentation of everything.”
She stared at me, and for the first time, I saw her without any mask at all.
There was nothing behind those eyes: no remorse, no fear, no humanity—just cold assessment.
“You were supposed to die,” she said flatly.
“You were supposed to drink that scotch and die, and I would have cried beautifully and inherited everything.”
“Why? You already had millions from the others. Why did you need more?”
She laughed, a harsh sound.
“Because money runs out. Because I deserve more. Because men like you make it so easy.”
“Desperate old widowers with more money than sense, eager for a pretty young wife.”
“You didn’t love me. You loved not being alone.”
The officers pulled her toward the exit.
She was still talking, her voice rising.
“David was boring. Thomas was boring. You were the most boring of all.”
“God, the things I had to endure: your stories about real estate deals, your pathetic attempts at romance.”
“You should be grateful. I was going to make it quick.”
They took her away.
Carlos and Rita went quietly; they knew they’d been caught.
As the crowd buzzed with shock and speculation, Michael appeared at my side.
“Dad, are you okay?”
I realized I was shaking.
“I don’t know.”
The gala ended early; guests departed in clusters, already texting and calling their friends with the dramatic news.
The foundation would still get their donations.
If anything, this would be the most talked-about benefit in Vancouver history.
