My Husband Drugged Me to Carry His Mistress’s Baby

I dragged myself back toward my hospital bed, my legs barely supporting my weight. The hallway seemed endless, each step sending waves of pain through my body. But I couldn't risk being discovered—not now, not when I finally understood the truth.

My hands trembled as I pulled myself onto the mattress, quickly arranging the blankets to hide my tracks. Just as I settled my head against the pillow, I heard footsteps approaching—the measured, confident stride I'd come to recognize as Luke's.

I closed my eyes, forcing my breathing into a steady rhythm. The door opened with a soft click.

"Still asleep," Luke murmured, his voice carrying that gentle tone he reserved for when others might be listening. "Poor thing."

I felt the mattress dip slightly as he sat beside me. His presence, once a comfort, now made my skin crawl. I fought against the instinct to flinch away.

"Such a shame about tonight," he continued, speaking to himself more than to me. "Clare was looking forward to seeing you."

Then I felt it—his fingers, encased in a latex glove, stroking through my hair. The touch was light, almost tender. Before tonight, I might have found it comforting. Now, it felt like poison.

"You're so beautiful, even like this," he whispered, his voice dropping lower. "So fragile."

I nearly gagged at the word. Fragile. As if I were some delicate flower he was nurturing instead of a woman he was systematically destroying.

Luke checked his watch—a gesture I'd seen countless times before. In the past, I'd thought it was just his punctuality, his professional demeanor. Now I understood it was simply impatience—impatience to be away from me, to return to Clare.

"Rest well, Mya," he said, leaning down to press a kiss against my forehead through the glove. "Tomorrow will be better."

The moment the door closed behind him, I opened my eyes, my heart hammering against my ribs. Tears burned behind my eyelids, but I refused to let them fall. Crying wouldn't help me now.

---

Three days later, I was ready.

"Here," Maria, one of the cleaning staff, slipped something beneath my pillow when no one was watching. "For emergencies," she whispered.

I waited until nightfall before retrieving the small burner phone. Maria had been kind to me from the beginning—the only staff member who looked me in the eyes instead of through me.

With shaking fingers, I dialed the number I'd memorized from a billboard I'd seen months ago. An underground clinic that promised discretion.

"I need an appointment," I whispered when a woman answered. "As soon as possible."

"Name?" the voice asked, professional but not unkind.

"Mya Martinez."

There was a pause. "Are you sure about this, honey? That's a high-profile name."

"I'm sure," I said firmly. "And I'm paying cash."

After scheduling the abortion for the following evening, I hung up and tucked the phone back into its hiding place. Then I reached for my medication—the fetal-stopping pills my doctor had prescribed to manage my "complications."

One by one, I emptied the vials, hiding the small white tablets inside the lining of my hospital slippers. If they were going to use me as a vessel, I would make damn sure they failed.

---

"Look who's awake," Clare's voice drifted through my door the next afternoon. "We've brought you some visitors, Mya."

I quickly adjusted my expression, smoothing away any hint of my determination. The door swung open to reveal Clare's perfect smile, Mrs. Castillo's cold eyes, and Luke hovering protectively near them both.

"How are you feeling today?" Clare asked, setting down an enormous bouquet of lilies—flowers I was allergic to. Of course.

"Better," I lied, my hand instinctively moving to my wrist. "Thank you for coming."

Mrs. Castillo's lips thinned. "We had to rearrange our entire schedule. The charity gala was expecting us."

"I'm sorry for the inconvenience," I said automatically, the words bitter on my tongue.

Clare moved closer, her hand brushing against Luke's arm in a gesture that appeared casual but felt deliberate. "Don't worry about us, Mya. We're just concerned about you and the baby."

The way she said "baby" made my stomach turn. Not my baby—their creation.

"We've been discussing your care plan," Luke said, checking his watch again. "Clare thinks you might benefit from some additional treatments."

I nodded meekly, playing the role they expected. But inside, something had hardened—a resolve forming like concrete around my heart.

They would not win. Not anymore.