My Husband Let His Mistress Kill Our Baby

The hospital corridors were quiet at 2:17 AM. I knew because I'd checked my watch three times in the last hour, each time hoping the numbers would change, hoping the ache in my chest would follow suit. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead with that particular frequency that only medical professionals learn to tune out—a constant, electric hum that had become the soundtrack to my unraveling life.

I was still holding Luna's collar. The leather was soft from years of wear, and it carried her scent—that familiar golden retriever warmth that was the only thing keeping me anchored to the world. My other hand rested flat on my abdomen, protective, almost reverent. The baby was so small, barely a flicker on an ultrasound, but it was mine. Ours. The thought of 'ours' sent a sharp pang through me that had nothing to do with my injuries.

The door opened.

I didn't look up immediately. Hospital rooms get a lot of traffic at night—nurses checking vitals, orderlies bringing meds, residents making rounds. But something in the cadence of these footsteps made my head lift.

Scarlet Lynch stood in the doorway.

She was immaculate. Her scrubs were crisp, pressed, not a single wrinkle. Her hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail that probably took her twenty minutes to perfect. She looked like she'd stepped out of a medical drama, all polished surfaces and practiced confidence.

'Annalise.' She said my name like it was a diagnosis. Something terminal.

I sat up straighter, ignoring the protest from my ribs. 'You're not on my care team.'

'No.' She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. The click was soft, almost gentle. 'But I thought you might need a proper check-up.'

In her right hand, she held a syringe. The liquid inside was clear, innocuous. The label on the side read 'Amoxicillin 500mg'—a routine antibiotic.

'What are you doing?' My voice came out sharper than I intended.

She smiled. The expression never reached her eyes. 'Standard post-trauma prophylaxis. You wouldn't want to develop an infection, would you?'

'I don't need—'

'Actually, you do.' She moved to the IV stand beside my bed with the fluid, practiced movements of someone who knew exactly what she was doing. 'Doctor's orders.'

I started to reach for the call button, but she was faster. Her hand closed over mine, and I was shocked by how strong she was. Her grip was like a vise.

'You know,' she said, her voice conversational, 'I've always admired your dedication to patient care. It's almost... religious.' She uncapped the syringe with her teeth. 'So selfless.'

The needle slid into my IV line with surgical precision. I tried to pull away, but her grip tightened, and a sharp pain shot through my arm.

'What are you giving me?' The words came out as a whisper.

She pushed the plunger down slowly, watching my face the entire time. 'Just something to help you sleep.'

The liquid disappeared into the line. She adjusted the IV drip with the same unhurried calm, setting it to a slower rate.

'You should rest now,' she said, stepping back. 'You look exhausted.'

I stared at her, at the syringe still in her hand, at the slight curl of satisfaction on her lips. 'This is assault. I'll report you.'

'Will you?' She tucked the syringe into her pocket. 'Who would believe you? The disgraced doctor who took the fall for a malpractice suit? The wife who can't keep her husband interested?' She leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper. 'Who do you think paid for my medical license, Annalise?'

The door opened again. She straightened, her professional mask sliding back into place as a night orderly appeared with a clipboard.

'Everything alright in here, Dr. Lynch?' he asked, not looking at me.

'Perfect,' she replied. 'Patient is stable and sedated. I've adjusted her antibiotics.'

He nodded, made a note, and left without a glance in my direction.

Scarlet followed him to the door, then turned back. 'Sweet dreams, Annalise.'

The door closed.

I lay there, my heart hammering against my ribs, my hand pressed against my abdomen. The baby. My baby. I needed to get help, needed to call someone, needed to—

The first cramp hit like a sledgehammer to the gut.

I doubled over, gasping. The pain was immediate, violent, nothing like the dull ache I'd felt earlier. This was tearing, shredding, a living thing being ripped apart from the inside.

'Help,' I managed to gasp. My hand found the call button, pressed it once, twice, three times.

The monitor beside my bed began to beep faster.

Another cramp. Worse than the first. I felt something warm and wet between my legs, and when I looked down, the hospital sheets were turning red.

Blood. So much blood.

I pressed the call button again, then again, then held it down.

'Help!' I screamed. 'Somebody help me!'

The door didn't open. The orderly didn't come. Nobody came.

I was alone with the pain and the blood and the terrible, dawning realization of what Scarlet had done. What she had taken from me.

Again.

The baby was slipping away, and I couldn't stop it, couldn't hold on, couldn't do anything except watch and feel and know that I was losing the only good thing left in my world.

My phone buzzed on the bedside table. A text message from an unknown number:

'By the way, Dante thinks Lily is a perfect name for a baby. He's already picking out cribs.'

The phone slipped from my fingers as another wave of agony tore through me, and I finally understood that some monsters don't hide under the bed.

They wear white coats and smile while they destroy you.