After My Husband Chose His Mistress Over Our Baby

The penthouse door opened at seven in the morning. I was already awake, sitting at the kitchen island with a cup of ginger tea I couldn't stomach. The nausea had been relentless since the ritual, my body screaming its protest at sustaining two lives while Cameron drained me dry.

He walked in smelling like a crime scene. Cheap floral perfume. The acrid, herbal bite of sage oil. Underneath it all, the faint, sweet rot of flesh that hadn't been properly alive in five years.

Cameron didn't look at me. He went straight to the bar cart, poured himself two fingers of scotch, and drank it in one swallow. His hand was steady. His color was good—the flush I'd bled into his skin last night still holding.

"Cameron." My voice came out softer than I intended. "Let me check your pulse."

His shoulders went rigid. When he turned, his eyes were flat, distant. "Don't."

"It's been less than twelve hours since the ritual. I need to monitor—"

"I said don't touch me." He set the glass down with a sharp crack. "Your hands are ice, June. They've always been ice. Last night, I felt real heat for the first time in years."

The words hit like a physical blow. I stood slowly, my fingers instinctively reaching for him. He jerked back as if I'd struck him.

"You don't understand," I said, my throat tight. "What you felt wasn't—"

"Wasn't real?" His laugh was cruel, brittle. "That's rich, coming from you. The woman who's spent five years smothering me with her paranoid rituals and cold, clinical touch." He straightened his tie, his movements sharp and dismissive. "I'll be networking more. Late nights. Don't wait up."

He walked past me, close enough that I could have grabbed his wrist, felt for the pulse that didn't exist. But I didn't. I stood frozen in the middle of our kitchen, watching my husband—my undead, ungrateful husband—walk away from the woman who bled herself dry to keep him breathing.

The door slammed. The sound echoed in the cavernous silence.

I pressed my palm against my stomach, feeling the faint, impossible flutter beneath my skin. "It's just us now, little spark," I whispered.

---

The brass bell above the door of *Lunar Herbs & Remedies* chimed softly as I entered. The shop was my sanctuary, tucked into a narrow storefront in the East Village that most people walked past without seeing. Protection wards hummed in the walls, keeping out the curious and the mundane.

Jax was already there, standing behind the counter with his arms crossed. He took one look at me and his jaw tightened.

"June." His voice was dangerously soft. "When did you last sleep?"

"I'm fine."

"You're not." He rounded the counter in three strides, his hands hovering near my shoulders but not quite touching. Jax never touched without permission. "Your hands are shaking. You can barely stand. How much blood did you give him this time?"

I pulled off my gloves slowly, revealing the fresh, silvery scars webbing across my palms. The skin around the ritual marks was inflamed, angry red against the pale canvas of my hands.

Jax's expression went dark. "This is killing you."

"I know what I'm doing."

"Do you?" He stepped closer, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "Because from where I'm standing, you're burning yourself out for a man who doesn't even know he's dead."

The words hung between us, sharp and true. I looked away, focusing on the jars of dried herbs lining the shelves. Mugwort. Wormwood. Yarrow. All the bitter, protective things.

"I'm pregnant," I said quietly.

The silence that followed was suffocating. When I finally looked at Jax, his face had gone pale.

"Tell me you're joking."

"Five years of fertility treatments. Ancient herbalism. Blood magic. I did the impossible, Jax. I created life with a dead man."

"You created a death sentence." His hands clenched into fists at his sides. "You can't sustain Cameron's resurrection and carry a child. Your body will choose, June. And it won't choose you."

"I can handle it."

"You can't." He reached for me then, his fingers gentle on my wrist, checking my pulse. His touch was warm, alive, everything Cameron's wasn't. "Break the bond. Let him go. Save yourself and the baby."

I pulled away, wrapping my arms around my middle. "I owe his family a debt. My mother died—"

"Your mother's debt isn't yours to pay with your life." Jax's voice cracked. "Please, June. I'm begging you. Walk away before it's too late."

But I couldn't. The weight of obligation, of duty, of five years of sacrifice—it was a chain I didn't know how to break.

"I have to go," I said, moving toward the door. "The Brooks Charity Gala is tonight. I need to prepare."

Jax didn't try to stop me. But as I stepped out into the gray afternoon light, I heard him whisper, "I'll be watching. When you're ready to let me save you, I'll be there."

---

The Plaza ballroom glittered like a jewelry box, all crystal chandeliers and champagne flutes and the kind of old money that smelled like privilege and secrets. I stood near the bar in a black silk gown that hid the protective wards I'd stitched into the lining, watching Cameron work the room.

He was magnetic tonight. Vibrant. His laugh carried across the marble floors, drawing people to him like moths to a flame that had been dead for five years.

Then she walked in.

Ava Hicks wore red—a bold, predatory crimson that clung to curves I knew were partially prosthetic. She moved through the crowd with practiced grace, her hand resting on a small, rounded bump beneath the silk.

No.

Cameron met her at the center of the room, his hand sliding possessively around her waist. The crowd quieted, sensing a moment.

"Everyone," Cameron's voice rang out, clear and proud. "I have an announcement. Ava is carrying the Brooks heir."

The room erupted in applause. Grandmother Brooks pushed through the crowd, her face radiant with joy as she embraced Ava. I watched, paralyzed, as Ava produced an ultrasound photo from her clutch, passing it around like a trophy.

It was impossible. Cameron was dead. His body was a shell animated by my blood and will. He couldn't create life.

Which meant Ava was lying.

Our eyes met across the ballroom. Ava's smile was sharp, triumphant. She leaned into Cameron, whispering something that made him laugh, and I felt the blood-bond between us pulse with his artificial joy.

I turned and walked out, my hand pressed against my own stomach, protecting the real miracle no one knew existed.

Behind me, the celebration continued, built on a foundation of beautiful, deadly lies.