My Husband Told Me to Apologize to His Pregnant Mistress

I woke to the ping of my phone. Squinting at the bright screen, I saw a notification from Instagram—Dalia had tagged me in a post. My stomach knotted as I opened the app.

There it was—a perfectly composed photo of Vincenzo's hand resting tenderly on Dalia's still-flat stomach. His wedding ring gleamed under studio lighting, a deliberate focal point. Her emerald gown from last night's gala draped elegantly around her, making her look like a queen surveying her domain.

"Reunited with my destiny," read the caption beneath. "Some loves are worth waiting for. #AndersonLegacy #BlessedAndGrateful"

Comments flooded in beneath the photo:

"Congratulations to the happy couple!"

"So beautiful together!"

"Finally! We've been waiting for this announcement!"

My fingers trembled as I scrolled through the responses. Each heart emoji, each congratulatory message felt like a knife twisting in my chest. Ten years of marriage reduced to nothing overnight.

I shouldn't have done it. I knew better. But something inside me—something that had been bending and bending for a decade—finally snapped.

"Is this why you destroyed a ten-year marriage?" I typed, my thumb hovering over the send button for only a moment before pressing it.

I set my phone down and walked to the window, staring out at the Manhattan skyline without really seeing it. The sun was rising, painting the city in gold. A new day. A new reality.

By the time I turned back, my comment had dozens of replies. Dalia's followers were attacking me with vicious comments:

"Jealous much?"

"Who cares about the help?"

"She was just a nurse, not a wife"

One reply stood out—a screenshot of my comment posted to another account with the caption: "When the hired help gets bitter. #Entitlement #KnowYourPlace"

I sank onto the edge of the bed, my legs suddenly unable to support me. The room spun slightly as I realized what I'd done. I'd given them exactly what they wanted—proof that I was the villain in their fairy tale.

---

The penthouse door slammed open with such force that the walls shook. I looked up from where I'd been sitting at the kitchen counter, still in my robe, to see Vincenzo storming toward me.

"What the hell were you thinking?" he demanded, his voice like ice. He thrust his phone in my face, showing my comment blown up on the screen.

"I was thinking that maybe someone should tell the truth," I said, my voice steadier than I felt.

"The truth?" He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "The truth is that you're jealous and petty. Dalia is carrying my child—my heir—and you're acting like a scorned teenager."

"I'm acting like your wife," I countered, rising to my feet. "The woman who spent five years helping you learn to walk again."

"That was your job," he snapped. "You were paid well for it."

The words hit like physical blows. Each one carefully chosen to wound.

"Delete the comment," he demanded, his eyes flashing with anger. "And apologize to Dalia for the harassment."

"Harassment?" I echoed incredulously. "She posted a photo deliberately provoking me—"

"Because she has nothing to hide!" Vincenzo cut me off. "Unlike you, who can't accept that your services are no longer needed."

I reached for his arm, desperate to make him understand. "Vincenzo, please. If you would just listen—"

He jerked away from my touch. "I don't have time for this. Dalia is waiting for me."

---

I followed him to the elevator, my heart pounding with desperation. This might be my last chance.

"Vincenzo," I called after him. "There's something you need to know."

He paused, his hand on the elevator button, looking back at me with impatience etched across his features.

"I'm pregnant," I said, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I've been trying to tell you for days. We're having a baby—our baby."

For a moment, something flickered in his eyes—surprise, perhaps even a hint of the man I once knew. But before I could hope, his phone rang.

He answered immediately. "Dalia? What's wrong?"

I watched his expression change as he listened, concern replacing anger.

"Cramps? How bad? No, don't move—I'm coming right now."

He pocketed his phone and stepped into the elevator without a backward glance.

"Your needs are insignificant compared to my heir," he said coldly as the doors closed between us.

I stood frozen in the hallway, one hand pressed against my stomach where our babies grew, unaware of the storm brewing around them.