Husband Chooses Mistress Over Wife

The basement door slammed shut with a finality that echoed through my bones. In the dim light filtering through a small, frosted window, I could see my breath clouding before me. My body trembled—from shock, from cold, from the contractions that shouldn't be happening yet.

"Marcus!" I screamed, my voice bouncing off concrete walls. "Please! The baby is coming!"

The bolt slid firmly into place. Footsteps retreated up the stairs.

Then came the sound of the door opening again. Hope flared in my chest—had he reconsidered? Had humanity won over whatever madness had possessed him?

Marcus descended the stairs, his face a mask of clinical detachment. In his hands, he carried a large metal bucket. Without a word, he approached me where I lay crumpled against the wall.

"This will help preserve you both until proper medical attention can be arranged," he said, his voice as cold as the air around us. "Hypothermic preservation therapy."

Before I could protest, he upended the bucket over me. Ice-cold water cascaded over my body, soaking through my clothes and the gashes from the accident. I screamed as the freezing liquid hit my open wounds, the pain so intense that for a moment, even the contractions seemed secondary.

"Marcus!" I gasped between sobs. "What are you doing? This will kill us!"

He looked down at me, and for a fleeting second, I thought I saw a flicker of doubt in his eyes. Then his gaze hardened again.

"The medical teams will be here after they've attended to Amanda," he said, straightening his expensive coat. "Her facial laceration requires immediate plastic surgery. You understand."

I didn't understand. I couldn't comprehend how the man I'd married, the father of my child, could pour ice water over his bleeding, pregnant wife and call it therapy.

"Please," I whispered, reaching for his hand. "Don't leave us here."

He stepped back, avoiding my touch as if I were contagious. "I need to get back to Amanda. Gregory will ensure you're not disturbed."

With that, he turned and climbed the stairs, leaving me shivering in a growing puddle of pink-tinged water.

I heard him at the top of the stairs, his voice carrying in the cavernous space: "This area is off-limits until medical teams arrive. No one is to enter the basement under any circumstances. Is that understood?"

A chorus of "Yes, sir" followed. Then Gregory Jones's distinctive voice: "What about the noises, sir?"

"Ignore them," Marcus replied. "She's in shock and might call out. It's part of the preservation process. Do not interfere."

The temperature seemed to drop another ten degrees as I realized the full extent of his betrayal. This wasn't preservation—it was a death sentence. For me and our baby.

I wrapped my arms around my belly as another contraction ripped through me. Through the tiny basement window, I could see the blizzard raging, snow piling higher against the glass. The basement temperature was already well below freezing, and now I was soaked to the skin.

"We're going to make it," I whispered to my unborn daughter, though my chattering teeth made the words almost unintelligible. "Mommy promises."

With trembling fingers, I began tearing strips from the bottom of my dress. The fabric, though wet, might provide some insulation for my belly. I wrapped the strips around my abdomen, wincing as another contraction came.

"We'll survive this," I murmured, working methodically despite my numbing fingers. "We'll survive, and we'll leave him. Just you and me."

Above me, I could hear footsteps—the household staff moving about, pretending not to hear my cries. Did they know what was happening? Did they care?

As I finished wrapping my belly, I caught a glimpse of Maria's face peering through the tiny window in the door. Our eyes met, and I saw horror and helplessness in her expression before Gregory pulled her away, his harsh whisper carrying down to me: "Mr. Mitchell's orders. No exceptions."

The cold was seeping into my bones now, my wet clothes freezing against my skin. Each breath was a struggle, each contraction a battle. But as I felt my baby move inside me—still fighting, still alive—I knew I couldn't give up.

"We're Mitchell women," I whispered, pressing my palms against my wrapped belly. "And Mitchell women don't break promises."

But as the temperature continued to drop and my strength ebbed away, I wondered if this was one promise I wouldn't be able to keep.