After Wife Uncovers Husband's Secret Affair

I dragged myself through the front door of our suburban home, my body aching from a fourteen-hour shift at the hospital. The antiseptic smell still clung to my scrubs as I dropped my bag by the entryway table. All I wanted was a hot shower and my bed—maybe a glass of wine if I could manage to stay awake long enough to pour it. The garage light was still on. Strange. Bradley usually turned it off after his morning commute. "Bradley?" I called out, receiving no answer. He must be upstairs in his study again, lost in his academic papers. I headed toward the garage, intending to turn off the light and check on my mountain bike. I'd been planning a weekend ride to clear my head after the stress of losing a patient earlier that week.

Chapters

Chapter 2

My phone rang at 3:17 AM, jolting me from a fitful sleep. Bradley's side of the bed was empty—again. I fumbled for my cell phone on the nightstand, squinting at the bright screen.

"Isabella?" Bradley's voice was panicked, unlike his usual composed tone. "You need to come to Memorial Hospital right away."

I sat up, instantly alert. "What happened?"

"It's Evie," he said, his voice cracking. "She's been hurt. Badly."

Something cold settled in my stomach. "What happened to her?"

"She was riding your bike," he said, and I could hear the tremor in his voice. "Something punctured her... in several places. The doctors are saying the wounds are unusual—like nothing they've seen before."

I closed my eyes, knowing exactly what had caused those wounds. The needles. My needles.

"I need you there," Bradley continued, his voice dropping to an urgent whisper. "You're the best doctor I know. If anyone can help her, it's you."

I swallowed hard, guilt and satisfaction warring within me. "I'll be right there."

The drive to Memorial Hospital was a blur. My mind raced with conflicting emotions—concern for a patient, fear of discovery, and a strange, dark pleasure at the thought of Evie suffering for her role in whatever was happening between her and my husband.

When I arrived, Bradley was pacing in the emergency room waiting area, his hair disheveled, his eyes wild with worry.

"Where is she?" I asked, my doctor's demeanor taking over.

"They've taken her to surgery," he said, grabbing my arm. "The wounds are deep, Isabella. They're saying she might need extensive repair work."

I nodded professionally, though inside I was calculating. The needles wouldn't have caused life-threatening injuries—I'd been careful about that. But they would have been painful. Very painful.

"I need to see her chart," I said, moving toward the nurses' station.

Bradley followed me like a shadow, his hand hovering near the small of my back but not quite touching me—a gesture he used to make all the time but now seemed hesitant, as if he wasn't sure of his place anymore.

"Is she going to be okay?" he asked, his voice tight with concern.

"She's in good hands," I replied mechanically, though something in his tone made me pause. The worry in his voice wasn't just that of a concerned professor for his student. It was more intimate, more... personal.

I glanced at him sideways, noticing the dark circles under his eyes, the way his knuckles were white from clenching his fists. This wasn't just professional concern.

When they finally allowed us to see Evie, she was in a private room, her face pale against the hospital sheets. IV lines snaked from her arms, and monitors beeped steadily beside her.

And there was Bradley, moving to her bedside with a fluidity that spoke of practice. He took her hand in his—a gesture so natural it seemed rehearsed.

"Evie," he murmured, his voice tender in a way I hadn't heard directed at me in years. "You're going to be fine. Isabella's here. She's the best."

Evie's eyes fluttered open, focusing on Bradley first, then widening when she saw me.

"Dr. Myers," she whispered, her voice weak.

I stepped forward, maintaining my professional composure despite the storm raging inside me. "Ms. Silva, I'm going to review your chart and consult with the surgical team."

As I moved to the foot of the bed to examine her chart, I noticed how Bradley's thumb stroked the back of Evie's hand—a small, intimate gesture that spoke volumes. The way she responded to his touch, the slight relaxation of her shoulders when he spoke to her...

My eyes dropped to the medical chart in my hands, scanning the vitals, the injury reports, the preliminary findings.

And then I saw it.

Pregnant: Yes.

Blood work confirmed: 8 weeks gestation.

The chart slipped from my fingers, floating to the floor like a leaf falling from a tree.

"Isabella?" Bradley's voice seemed distant, as if coming from underwater. "Are you okay?"

I stared at the chart, at the words that seemed to glow on the page. Pregnant. Eight weeks.

Eight weeks ago, Bradley had been on a "conference trip" to Boston.

Eight weeks ago, I had been celebrating my birthday alone because he'd claimed he couldn't get away from his academic obligations.

Eight weeks ago, I had still believed in our marriage.

"Isabella?" Bradley touched my arm, his eyes searching my face with sudden concern.

I looked up at him, then at Evie, who was watching me with a mixture of pain and something else—guilt? Fear?

The student who had been riding my bike was carrying my husband's child. The family I could never give him.

In that moment, standing in the sterile hospital room with the beeping monitors and the antiseptic smell filling my nostrils, I felt something inside me crack—like the first fissure in a dam about to break.

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I was organizing quarterly reports on the shared drive when I saw it—a folder labeled simply "O.C. Daily." My cursor hovered over it, something about the initials making my stomach tighten. I shouldn't have clicked. Some part of me knew what I'd find, but I couldn't stop myself. The document opened, and my blood turned to ice water in my veins. "Old Crow Daily Chronicles: Observations on Our Feathered Friend" The first entry was dated six months ago. *Today Old Crow spent thirty minutes picking through the recycling bin for 'project materials.' What a shame she couldn't find anything useful—maybe because she's too busy cawing at everyone instead of actually contributing?* I scrolled down, each entry more vicious than the last. Detailed accounts of my daily activities, my clothing choices, even my lunch habits. *Old Crow brought the same sandwich three days in a row. Wonder if she's saving money for a new nest?* *She actually asked Mr.

Modern Mystery Romance

7.1

Betrayed Wife: Hiding The Mafia Boss's Son

7.1

I woke up wrapped in the arms of a man I believed would burn the world for me. Michael Thorne was the underworld’s golden boy, and I was pregnant with his legacy. But by sunset, the illusion shattered. During our family brunch, the doors burst open and a woman dragged a four-year-old boy into the room. The child had Michael’s nose. His chin. "Tell them who Leo is!" the woman screamed. Michael froze. He didn't deny it. While I stood there in shock, his mistress lunged at me, clawing at my face. My husband hesitated. In that split second, I realized I wasn't his wife; I was just an incubator for his empire. He had kept a secret family as an insurance policy. My father destroyed Michael’s career in an hour, stripping him of his money and status. But I wanted to destroy his soul. He begged for forgiveness, weeping, claiming he loved our unborn child more than anything. So I placed a hand on my stomach and looked him dead in the eye. "There is no baby, Michael," I lied. "Your legacy is dead." As he fell to his knees, broken, I walked away to build my own empire—with the son he would never know existed.

Mafia Modern Romance

8.1

Husband's Obsession, Wife's Wrath

8.1

The morning sunlight streamed through the kitchen windows, casting a deceptive warmth across our breakfast table. I stirred my coffee absently, the spoon clinking against porcelain in a steady rhythm that matched my heartbeat. Legend sat across from me, his expression unreadable as he scrolled through his phone, barely acknowledging my presence. The silence between us had become our new normal, but something about today's quiet felt heavier, more ominous. "I'm transferring the mansion to Kyla's name," Legend announced suddenly, his voice as casual as if discussing the weather. My spoon froze mid-stir. "What did you just say?" He didn't even look up from his phone. "The family mansion. I'm signing it over to Kyla. She needs it more than we do." The mansion.

Billionaire Modern Romance

8.9

My Husband Tried to Kill Me for His Mistress

8.9

The iron gates of the Holmes family mausoleum were standing wide open. That was the first fracture in the reality I thought I understood. It had been exactly seven days since we buried my mother. The grief was still a physical weight in my chest, a heavy stone I carried under my black wool coat. I had driven up from the city to sit in the silence, to trace the letters of her name on the fresh marble, but the silence had been shattered before I even killed the engine. Voices echoed from the crypt’s mouth. Not the hushed tones of mourners, but the sharp, grating scrape of metal on stone. I stepped out of the car, the upstate mist clinging to my skin. My heels sank into the damp earth as I moved toward the entrance. The air inside the mausoleum usually smelled of dry roses and dust; today, it smelled of sweat and violation.

Modern Mystery Romance

8.3

The Billionaire's Asset: Cashing Out Freedom

8.3

I spent three years acting as a high-end manufacturing plant for the Snyder dynasty, waiting for the day I could finally break my golden cage. Today, I slid the postnuptial amendment across the desk, trading my marriage for fifty million dollars and a chance to breathe again. I thought I was free the moment the elevator doors closed. But while I was at a club celebrating my "asset liquidation" with champagne and silk blindfolds, the Snyder empire was falling apart. My grandfather-in-law had a heart attack the second he heard I was gone, and he refused the surgery that would save his life unless I was the one to authorize it. Claudius didn't send a lawyer to bring me back; he came himself. He burst into my private VIP suite like a predator, his eyes cold enough to freeze the room. He saw the models, the drinks, and the blindfold, and he instantly assumed I was selling my dignity at a discount just hours after leaving him. He didn't care about the truth or the papers I’d already signed. He kicked the cameras out of his cousin’s hands, cleared the room with a single look of death, and hauled me over his shoulder like a sack of grain in front of everyone. To him, I wasn't a woman or a wife; I was a critical piece of hardware that had gone rogue. "The separation is paused," he growled, pinning me against the leather seats of his Maybach as the child locks clicked into place. I stared at the bite mark I’d just left on his thumb, realizing that in the world of the Snyders, even a signed exit strategy was just another contract he was willing to break. This wasn't the end of my marriage; it was the start of a much more dangerous game.

Billionaire Modern Romance

9.2

The Billionaire's Doll: Her Secret Escape

9.2

I was just a placeholder, a warm body in silk sheets to keep the bed from getting cold while my billionaire "owner," Garrick Head, dreamt of another man’s wife. To the world, I was Ever Wells, the lucky girl he’d plucked from obscurity, but in reality, I was a doll on a 145-day contract, counting every second until I could disappear. Everything shattered when a burner phone buzzed in my hand with a message that turned my blood to ice: "I know your secret, Everly." My real name was the one thing I had buried to protect my four-year-old son, Leo, who was hidden in a cramped apartment in Queens. Just as the blackmailer closed in, Leo’s asthma flared into a life-threatening fever, and the medication he needed cost thousands I didn't have. When I tried to siphon money to save him, Garrick sensed my desperation and froze my credit cards, mocking my "poverty" and demanding I crawl back to his bed to earn his favor. The nightmare intensified at a high-society gala when Clarence Frazier, a dangerous ghost from my past, cornered me. He mouthed my real name in front of the cameras, his eyes promising to tear my fake life apart. Garrick’s possessiveness turned violent as he broke a man’s jaw for insulting me, yet in the same breath, he reminded me I was nothing but a "rented whore" he’d bought off a shelf. I had to smile while he kissed me and detach my mind while he touched me, all while siphoning pennies into a hidden account. He thought he could finalize my imprisonment with a twenty-million-dollar apartment on Central Park West, calling it a gift when it was really just a heavier lock on my golden cage. "I don't want to save the world," I whispered to the empty, marble penthouse after he fell asleep. "I just want to save my son." With a predator from my past watching my every move and a master who treated me like a pet, I realized I couldn't wait for my contract to end. I had to run tonight, or Leo and I would both die in this cage.

Billionaire Modern Mystery

After Wife Uncovers Husband's Secret Affair

Chapter 2

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