My Husband and Son Chose His Mistress Over Me

"You bled through the foyer rug, Charlotte."

The voice cut through the heavy fog in my brain. I forced my eyelids open. Harsh fluorescent lights burned my retinas, and the sharp stench of rubbing alcohol stung my nose.

I shifted on the stiff mattress. A jagged, tearing pain ripped through my lower abdomen.

My older brother, Lucas Sinclair, sat beside the metal bed. I hadn't seen him in five years. His tailored suit looked entirely out of place in the sterile, cramped room.

"Lucas?" I pushed myself up, ignoring the protest of my muscles. I grabbed the thin hospital sheet, my fingers trembling. "My baby. Lucas, where is my baby?"

He stared at the tiled floor. His jaw tightened.

"Answer me!" I screamed. I tore at the IV line taped to my hand.

He caught my wrists, pinning them gently to the mattress. "Gone, Charlotte. The doctor said thirty more minutes on that floor, and you would have bled to death right alongside it."

A raw sob tore from my throat. I doubled over, burying my face into my knees. The monitor beside the bed beeped in a frantic rhythm. My chest caved in, seizing violently. I gasped for air, but the room felt entirely devoid of oxygen.

"Maria found you," Lucas said. "Your nanny. Not your husband. She called the ambulance, and then she called me."

I shook my head, pressing my palms against my ears. "No. Ethan just... he was angry. He didn't know I was hurt."

"He hit you," Lucas snarled. He ripped my hands away from my head, forcing me to look at him. "There is a handprint bruised into your left cheek. Did he not know about that either?"

I squeezed my eyes shut. The memory of the crack echoing in the foyer returned, bringing a fresh wave of nausea.

"How long?" Lucas asked. His voice dropped to a dangerous octave. "How long have you been living like a stray dog in that bastard's house?"

"You don't understand," I choked out, wiping wet streaks from my cheeks.

"I understand you vanished." He released my wrists and paced to the narrow window. "You cut us off to play house with Ethan Walker. You let him parade his dead friend's widow around your home. Why didn't you call me?"

"Dad made me promise!" I yelled, the strain scraping my vocal cords. "He said if I walked out that door to marry Ethan, I was dead to him. He made me swear I would never reveal my identity to the Walkers. Never use the Sinclair money to buy my way into their good graces."

Lucas stopped pacing. He turned, his eyes narrowing into cold slits. "So you chose to be a nobody. You let them treat you like dirt because you wanted to prove a point to a stubborn old man?"

"I thought it would be enough," I whispered, gripping the hospital gown. "I thought if I just loved Ethan, he would see me. He would trust me. I didn't want him to love the Sinclair heiress. I wanted him to love me."

"And look where that got you." Lucas pointed a rigid finger at the empty space above my stomach. "Lying in a cheap hospital bed, mourning a child your husband practically killed."

"Stop it!" I covered my face, sobbing uncontrollably.

Lucas crossed the room. The anger drained from his posture, replaced by a heavy sorrow. He wrapped his arms around my shaking shoulders and pulled me against his chest.

"The Sinclair princess," he murmured into my hair, "was never meant to be a punching bag."

I clung to his tailored lapels, soaking the expensive fabric with my tears. "Noah," I sobbed. "I can't leave Noah. I carried him for ten months. He's my son. He needs me."

Lucas went completely rigid. He pulled back, gripping my shoulders. "Your son?"

"Yes, I have to go back for him. If I leave, Olivia will take over. She'll raise him."

"Noah is at Le Bernardin right now," Lucas stated, his tone freezing over.

I blinked, confused. "What?"

"He is eating lobster with Ethan and Olivia. They are celebrating her recovery from the fall." Lucas pulled his phone from his pocket and tossed it onto my lap.

The screen displayed a candid photo from a social media page. Ethan, smiling. Olivia, holding a wine glass. And my son, Noah, laughing beside her, holding a forkful of dessert.

"No one is looking for you," Lucas continued, delivering the words like a surgeon cutting out an infection. "Not your husband. Not your son. They don't even know you're in this hospital, Charlotte. A child who refuses to look at his own mother isn't worth this sacrifice."

"You can't talk about him like that!" I shoved Lucas's chest. "He's just a little boy!"

"He's a little boy who told Maria to leave him alone when she asked where you were," Lucas shot back. "She told me everything, Charlotte. She told me how Noah calls Olivia 'Auntie Liv' and asks why you can't be more like her."

I stared at the glowing screen. The faces blurred as fresh tears spilled over my lashes.

"He's only seven," I pleaded, trying to find an excuse. "He doesn't know any better. Ethan fills his head with lies."

"He knows you aren't at the dinner table," Lucas fired back. "Does he look worried in that picture?"

I stared at Noah's bright, joyful smile. My heart flatlined. There was no trace of concern on his face. No anxiety over his missing mother. He looked like he belonged perfectly in that picture, with Ethan and Olivia as his parents.

My fingers went numb, dropping the device onto the blankets.

Lucas snatched the phone back. He tapped a number on the screen and lifted it to his ear.

"What are you doing?" I asked, my voice hollow.

"Ending this." He didn't look at me. His gaze fixed on the blank wall opposite the bed. "Marcus? Pull the Walker Group files. Target their supply chain first. I want Ethan bankrupt by Friday."