The Dying Wife's Secret Baby Bump

His hand was moving higher, sliding up the fabric of her trousers. His touch burned through the material, a brand of ownership. Arlene's mind raced, a frantic, jumbled mess of terror and desperation. She couldn't fight him off. She was too weak, too dizzy. She had only one weapon left. One lie. She grabbed his wrist, her fingers digging into his skin. "Stop!" she gasped, her voice raw. "I... I'm on my period!" Harrison froze. His hand stilled on her thigh. His eyes narrowed, a flash of disgust crossing his features. "What?" "It's my period," she repeated, the lie tumbling out. "It's... it's really bad. Please." He pulled his hand back, his lip curling. He stared at her, his gaze sweeping over her face, looking for the deception. The sweat, the pale skin, the trembling-what a pathetic performance. She looked like a woman in the grip of severe cramps, willing to do anything to get out of her duties. Arlene clutched her stomach, doubling over in a mock display of pain that wasn't entirely fake. "It hurts," she moaned, squeezing her eyes shut. A sharp, tearing cramp ripped through her abdomen. It was so intense she couldn't hold back a cry. She wasn't acting anymore. The pain was real. Too real. And then, she felt it. A warm gush between her legs. A wetness that had nothing to do with period blood. Her heart stopped. The blood drained from her face, leaving her cold and hollow. No. No. No. She was bleeding. Really bleeding. The baby. Panic, raw and primal, seized her by the throat. She wanted to scream, to demand he take her to a hospital. But she couldn't. If he knew she was pregnant, he would make her get rid of it. He had said so himself. He would rather the Boyle line die than have a Parker child. She had to keep the secret. She had to endure. She forced herself to look at him, her eyes wide and pleading. The tears that had been threatening all day finally spilled over, streaming down her cheeks. They were tears of terror, but he would read them as pain. "Please," she whimpered. "I just want to go home." Harrison stared at her for a long, agonizing moment. His jaw was clenched, the muscle ticking. He looked like he wanted to argue, to call her a liar. But the sight of her-so pale, so fragile, so obviously suffering-seemed to repulse him. "Drive," he barked at the driver. The car lurched forward, the privacy screen still up. Harrison moved back to his side of the seat, putting as much distance between them as the car allowed. He pulled out his phone, stabbing at the screen with his thumb, ignoring her completely. Arlene curled into a ball, her hands pressed between her legs, trying to stem the flow. The warmth was a constant, terrifying reminder of the life she might be losing. Every bump in the road sent a jolt of pain through her body. The drive back to the estate was an eternity. When the car finally stopped, Harrison was out the door before the engine died. He strode up the front steps, not looking back. Arlene stumbled after him, her legs barely holding her up. She walked through the front door, her only thought to get to her room, to assess the damage. She was halfway up the stairs when his voice stopped her. "Arlene." She froze, her hand gripping the banister. She turned slowly, expecting to see his face contorted with rage, expecting another punishment. He was standing in the doorway of his study, his expression unreadable in the dim light of the hall. "Maura will bring you a hot water bottle," he said, his voice clipped and devoid of any warmth. "Don't bleed on the sheets." He turned and walked away, his footsteps fading down the hall. He didn't say goodnight. He didn't say anything else. Arlene stood on the stairs, her hand clutching the cold wood of the banister. The words were cruel, dismissive, but they were an acknowledgment. A cruelly practical one. It was a dismissal, not an act of care. It was a command to a servant, not a gesture to a wife. The coldness was absolute, leaving no room for misunderstanding, no crack for hope to seep through. It didn't matter. The dismissal was better than his attention. It couldn't erase the pain. It couldn't save her baby. But it meant she was alone. She climbed the rest of the stairs, her legs like lead. She locked her bedroom door behind her and leaned against it, sliding down to the floor. The silence of the room was a heavy blanket. There would be no tea. There would be no comfort. There was only the throbbing pain in her abdomen and the terrifying dampness between her legs. She pulled out her phone. Her hands were shaking so badly she could barely type. She didn't call a doctor. She couldn't risk it. She just sat there, in the dark, waiting for the bleeding to stop. Praying to a god she wasn't sure existed that the life inside her would hold on.