My Husband Let His Mistress Kill Our Baby

Three weeks passed.

The weather stayed freezing, and the cramps started small. At first, they felt like dull aches deep in my lower back. I took two pills from the amber glass bottle Douglas had sent, drank a glass of water, and tried to sleep.

Around two in the morning, the pain woke me up.

It wasn't a dull ache anymore. It was a sharp, tearing grip that made my breath catch in my throat. I threw off the duvet and staggered into the bathroom.

I flipped the light switch. The bright white bulbs hurt my eyes.

I looked down. Dark red blood was running down the inside of my thighs, dripping onto the cold marble tile.

A wave of dizziness hit me. My hands started to shake. I grabbed the edge of the sink, my knuckles turning white.

"No," I whispered. "No, no, no."

I stumbled back to the nightstand and grabbed my phone. I dialed Lawson’s number.

The phone pressed against my ear.

*Ring.*

*Ring.*

*Ring.*

My knees gave out. I sank onto the floor, clutching my stomach with one arm.

*Ring.*

*Ring.*

The line clicked. But it wasn't Lawson’s voice. Right before the automated voicemail beeped, a sound leaked through the receiver.

It was a woman’s laugh. High, clear, and totally carefree. Kairi.

Then came the mechanical voice: *“Please leave your message after the tone.”*

*Beep.*

I didn't leave a message. I didn't scream. I just tapped the red button and hung up.

I sat on the cold floor for five seconds. The apartment was dead silent. Nobody was coming home. Nobody was going to hold my hand or tell me it would be okay.

I took a slow breath, wiped the sweat from my forehead, and dialed 911.

"Emergency," the operator said.

"I'm pregnant," I said. My voice was flat and steady. "Ten weeks. I’m bleeding heavily. I need an ambulance."

I gave the address. Then I unlocked the front door so the paramedics wouldn't have to break it down.

The ride to the hospital was loud and bumpy. Red and blue lights flashed across the ceiling of the ambulance. The paramedic kept asking me questions, pressing gauze between my legs, checking my pulse.

I didn't answer most of them. I just stared at the metal roof and listened to the sirens wailing into the night.

At the hospital, everything moved fast.

Wheelchairs. Cold hallways. Shouting voices. Fluorescent lights that made my skin look gray. A doctor pressed an ultrasound wand against my lower belly, pressing down hard.

She stared at the monitor for a long time. She didn't turn the screen toward me.

"I'm sorry, Ember," she said quietly. "There’s no heartbeat."

The room seemed to tilt. But there was no time to think.

"She's hemorrhaging," someone called out. "BP is dropping. Prep OR two now."

A mask was pressed over my face. The sharp, chemical smell of anesthesia filled my lungs. I tried to hold onto the memory of the little white smudge on the fridge, but the darkness pulled me under.

When I opened my eyes, the room was quiet.

The air smelled like bleach and iodine. A thin hospital blanket was tucked tight around my legs. My body felt empty, hollowed out like a dry riverbed.

A doctor stood by the foot of my bed, holding a metal clipboard. He had tired gray eyes.

"Mrs. Hughes?" he asked softly.

I blinked at him. My throat was too dry to speak.

He stepped closer and pulled up a chair. "The surgery was difficult," he said, keeping his voice gentle. "The bleeding was severe. There was extensive damage to the uterine lining. We had to perform an emergency procedure to save your life."

He paused. He looked down at his hands, then back at me.

"I’m very sorry. You won't be able to carry a child again. The damage is permanent."

I looked up at the white ceiling tiles. There were small gray dots on them. I started counting them. One, two, three, four.

"Do you understand what I'm telling you, Ember?"

"Yes," I said. My voice sounded thin, like dry paper.

He patted the edge of the mattress and left the room.

I lifted my hands from under the blanket. Slowly, I pressed both palms flat against my sternum. Right over the bone.

Beneath my ribs, my own heart was beating. Slow and tired.

I didn't cry. There were no tears left in me. Just a cold, heavy silence.

By afternoon, I signed the discharge papers. The nurses tried to tell me to stay, but I refused. I called a cab and rode back to Manhattan alone.

The penthouse was just as I had left it. Dark, quiet, and cold.

I didn't turn on any lights. I walked into the bedroom, sat down on the edge of the mattress, and folded my hands in my lap. I just sat there in the shadows, watching the streetlights cut lines across the floor.

Six hours later, the front door clicked open.

Footsteps echoed down the hallway. Lawson walked into the bedroom, unbuttoning his suit jacket. He smelled of expensive sandalwood cologne, fresh air, and sleep.

He flipped on the bedside lamp.

The light hit my face. He stopped, startled for half a second. He took in my pale skin, the dark circles under my eyes, and the hospital band still taped to my wrist.

He didn't rush forward. He didn't ask where I had been.

He just loosened his tie, tossed it onto the armchair, and looked at me.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

I looked at him. I looked at the rise and fall of his chest. My brother’s heart was inside there, pumping blood for a man who didn't care if I lived or died.

"Yes," I said.

Lawson nodded once. "Good. I have an early meeting with Douglas tomorrow."

He kicked off his shoes, walked into the bathroom to wash his face, and came back to bed. He pulled the covers up, turned his back to me, and closed his eyes.

Neither of us mentioned the baby again.