My Husband Tried to Murder Me for His Mistress

Three days passed.

My bruises turned from purple to a dull, sickly yellow. The cuts on my wrists from the zip-ties were dark and scabbed over.

Brendan showed up at Mount Sinai on a Tuesday afternoon.

He didn’t ask why I was in the hospital. He didn’t ask where I had been for two days when Julian’s men took me. He didn’t lean down to kiss my forehead.

He stood at the foot of my bed in a charcoal wool coat. He checked his watch twice.

"You need to discharge," he said. No hello.

I looked up at him. "What did you say?"

"You need to give up this room," Brendan said. His voice was rushed and tight. "And your OB-GYN, Dr. Vance. Daisy needs him. She needs the private suite on this floor."

"Daisy," I repeated slowly.

"She collapsed this morning," he said. His eyes were bloodshot. He actually looked terrified for her. He had never looked that terrified for me in five years of marriage. "The doctors found something wrong with her blood. A rare bone marrow disease. She needs full isolation and immediate specialist care."

"I'm seven weeks pregnant, Brendan," I said. "I fell. I've been bleeding."

Brendan scoffed. He waved a dismissive hand toward my stomach.

"Daisy's health matters more than this," he said.

The room went dead silent.

The heart monitor beside me gave a steady, rhythmic beep.

I didn't blink. I didn't yell. A cold, clean numbness spread through my veins. Every last trace of the man I had loved simply dissolved into ash.

"Get out," I said quietly.

Brendan frowned, his fingers twitching toward his collar. He always touched his neck when he was uncomfortable. "Elena, be reasonable—"

"Get out, Brendan."

My face didn't move. My voice didn't shake.

He glared at me, turned on his heel, and slammed the door behind him.

***

After he left, I got out of bed.

I walked into the small hospital bathroom. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed, harsh and white.

I looked at myself in the mirror. My face was pale. The scabs on my wrists were ugly.

I rested one flat hand over my belly.

A life was growing in there. A tiny heartbeat. A child made of my flesh, and Brendan’s.

A man who had quietly agreed to have me butchered in a Bronx warehouse for an insurance payout. A man who looked at our unborn baby and said it didn't matter.

I would not carry his bloodline. I would not tie myself to his filth for the rest of my life.

I didn't cry. Not a single tear fell.

I stepped out of the bathroom and pressed the call button.

When Dr. Vance entered, I met his eyes directly. "I want to terminate the pregnancy."

He paused, caught off guard. "Elena... are you sure? The fetal heartbeat is completely stable."

"I am sure," I said. "Schedule the procedure for today."

He saw the look on my face and didn't argue. He brought in the consent forms ten minutes later.

I signed my name with a steady hand. Every letter was sharp and neat.

Before the nurse took the clipboard, I looked up at her.

"I have one specific request," I said. "When the procedure is finished, I want the complete medical records and the termination certificate sent by direct courier."

"To your apartment?" the nurse asked.

"No," I replied. "To Mrs. Kimora Harris. Hand-delivered to the Harris residence. Marked personal and urgent."

***

Kimora Harris lived for one thing: the Harris family legacy.

She was obsessed with lineage, social standing, and carrying on their name. For two years, she had badgered me about fertility supplements, ovulation calendars, and family trees. She wanted a grandchild more than air.

The procedure was over by four in the afternoon. The physical pain was just a dull ache, nothing compared to the quiet clarity in my chest.

At seven that evening, my phone buzzed on the bedside table.

It was Brendan.

I answered and put it on speaker.

"Elena!" His voice was ragged, cracking with pure panic. "What the hell did you do? What did you send to my mother?"

In the background, glass shattered violently against a hardwood floor.

A woman’s shrill, hysterical scream tore through the receiver. It was Kimora.

"You killed my grandchild!" Kimora was shrieking at Brendan, her voice raw with fury. "You drove your wife to abort my grandchild for that Diaz girl? Look at these papers, Brendan! Look at what you've done!"

"Mom, please, stop screaming, let me explain—" Brendan stammered. His smooth, polished facade had collapsed into dust.

"Explain what?" Kimora roared. "You threw away our family’s blood for a mistress? Get out of my sight! Scott, get our attorney on the phone right now! Freeze his accounts!"

"Elena, talk to me!" Brendan begged into the phone, breathing hard. "You planned this, didn't you? Tell her you lied! Tell her there was a medical complication—"

I listened to his desperate, shallow breaths.

He had wanted a war. Now he had one in his own living room.

"Daisy's health matters more," I said in a calm, clear voice. "Isn't that right?"

"Elena, wait, please—"

I hung up.

I blocked his number. Then I laid the phone face-down on the table.

The room fell back into silence. The nightmare wasn't over, but the game had finally changed.