Fake Pregnancy, Real Betrayal

The doorbell rang at precisely nine o'clock. I stood frozen in our living room, still clutching the phone with Violette's Instagram post displayed on the screen. Sullivan had disappeared upstairs, presumably to prepare for this humiliating spectacle he'd arranged.

"I'll get it," he called down, his voice artificially light.

I heard the front door open, followed by the soft murmur of voices. Then Sullivan appeared in the doorway, his hand resting possessively on Violette's lower back as he guided her into our home.

"Flora," he said, his tone strained. "Violette wants to talk to you."

My childhood friend stood before me, her eyes rimmed with what looked like genuine tears. She wore a simple blue dress that highlighted her slender figure—no visible signs of pregnancy yet, though the sonogram image from her Instagram post flashed in my mind.

"Flora," Violette whispered, her voice breaking. "I'm so sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen."

I remained silent, watching her performance with a detachment that surprised even me.

"I know I've made a terrible mistake," she continued, twisting her hands together. "Sullivan and I... we had a moment of weakness. But it's over now. You're his wife. You're the one he truly loves."

Sullivan shifted uncomfortably beside her, his eyes darting between us like he was watching a tennis match.

"Violette," he started, reaching for her hand. "Maybe we should—"

She suddenly doubled over, clutching her stomach with a gasp that seemed to rip from her throat. "Oh God," she moaned. "Something's wrong."

Sullivan dropped to his knees beside her instantly. "What is it? What's happening?"

"The baby," she whimpered, tears streaming down her face. "Something feels wrong. I need... I need to go to the hospital."

Without hesitation, Sullivan scooped her into his arms. "I'm taking you to the hospital right now."

He paused at the doorway, finally looking at me. "Stay here. I'll call you later."

And just like that, I was alone. On Thanksgiving night. In our half-eaten feast of a marriage.

---

The house felt cavernous around me. I sat at our dining table, staring at the perfectly roasted turkey that had taken me hours to prepare. The candles I'd lit for our intimate dinner flickered in pools of wax, casting long shadows across the untouched side dishes.

My phone lay beside my plate, still open to Violette's Instagram post. I scrolled through the comments—friends and acquaintances offering congratulations and well-wishes to the mother-to-be.

"Such wonderful news!"

"Congratulations on your little miracle!"

"So happy for you both!"

Both. As if Sullivan and Violette were already a couple. As if I had ceased to exist.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The silence of the house pressed in around me, but instead of breaking down, I felt something hardening inside my chest.

I reached for my phone and scrolled through my contacts until I found a number I rarely called anymore.

"Anthony Barnes," he answered on the third ring.

"Anthony," I said, surprised by the steadiness of my voice. "It's Flora."

A pause. "Flora. It's late. Is everything alright?"

"No," I replied simply. "Everything is very much not alright."

I could hear the shift in his tone—the careful neutrality giving way to concern. "What's happened?"

"Sullivan's having a baby with Violette Rose," I said, the words burning my throat. "And I need your help."

Another pause, longer this time. When Anthony spoke again, his voice was low and measured. "Tell me everything."

For the next twenty minutes, I laid out the entire situation—the pregnancy test, Violette's social media post, Sullivan's lies, and now his abandonment of me on Thanksgiving night.

"I can meet you tomorrow," Anthony said when I finished. "We'll figure out your options."

"Thank you," I whispered, relief washing over me for the first time that evening.

---

The shrill ring of my phone jolted me awake the next morning. I'd fallen asleep on the couch, still dressed in yesterday's clothes.

"Flora." Sullivan's voice was cold, clinical. "I need you to do something."

I sat up slowly, my body stiff from the uncomfortable night. "What?"

"Violette needs soup. Homemade chicken soup." He spoke as if ordering from a restaurant. "Make it and bring it to Memorial Hospital. Room 412."

"Sullivan," I began, my voice tight. "I'm not your—"

"Just do it, Flora." His tone cut me off. "After everything I've done for you, this is the least you can do."

The line went dead before I could respond.

I stared at my phone, a strange calm settling over me. In that moment, any lingering doubt about my decision vanished completely.

I would make the soup. And I would bring it to the hospital.

But not for the reasons Sullivan thought.