After I Heard My Husband Plan My Murder

The hospital corridor smelled like antiseptic and flowers. I walked slowly, one hand on my belly, the other holding the framed ultrasound photo against my chest. My daughter's profile in grainy black and white. The curve of her nose. Her tiny fist pressed against her cheek.

I wanted to show Dr. Ashby. I wanted to ask him one more time if everything looked perfect. I knew it was silly. He'd told me yesterday that she was healthy. Strong heartbeat. Good position. But I couldn't help myself. After eight losses, I needed to hear it again.

I turned the corner toward his office. The door was open just a crack. I heard voices inside.

One of them was Damian's.

I stopped. My husband wasn't supposed to be here today. He'd said he had back-to-back meetings downtown. Something about the hotel acquisition. I smiled to myself. He must have snuck away to talk to Dr. Ashby. Probably asking questions he was too embarrassed to ask in front of me. Damian did that sometimes. Played tough in public but worried in private.

I stepped closer, ready to push the door open and tease him.

Then I heard what he was saying.

"Two million. Wired the day it's done." His voice was flat. Cold. Not the warm tone he used with me. Not even close.

I froze.

Dr. Ashby's voice came next, lower, uncertain. "You're absolutely sure about this? There's no going back once we're in the OR."

"I'm sure." Damian's words were clipped. Impatient. "Make it look like a complication. Hemorrhage. Embolism. I don't care. Just make sure neither of them leaves that table."

Neither of them.

The ultrasound frame slipped from my fingers. It hit the floor face-down with a soft thud.

I stared at the back of the frame. White wood. A small crack in the corner I'd never noticed before.

Inside the office, the voices stopped.

I bent down. Picked up the frame. My hands didn't shake. My breath didn't catch. I stood up slowly, turned, and walked back down the corridor the way I'd come.

One foot in front of the other.

Past the nurses' station. Past the elevator. Past a woman in a wheelchair holding a newborn wrapped in a pink blanket.

I smiled at her. She smiled back.

I reached my private suite at the end of the hall. The door clicked shut behind me. I set the ultrasound photo on the nightstand. Face up this time. My daughter's profile staring at the ceiling.

I walked into the bathroom. Locked the door. Turned on the faucet.

Then my hands started shaking.

I gripped the edge of the sink. Cold marble under my palms. I looked at my reflection in the mirror. Pale face. Dark circles under my eyes. The glow everyone kept talking about.

Two million dollars.

Make sure neither of them leaves that table.

I opened the cabinet under the sink. Reached past the towels and toiletries to the back corner. My fingers found the false panel I'd installed two years ago. Old habits. I'd told myself it was paranoia. A relic from a life I didn't live anymore.

I pulled out the burner phone.

It still had battery. I'd charged it every six months like clockwork. Just in case.

I dialed the number from memory. Muscle memory. My thumb knew the sequence before my brain caught up.

It rang once. Twice.

Then his voice. Rough. Familiar. Like no time had passed at all.

"Ivy."

I closed my eyes. "I need you. Now."

Silence. Two seconds that felt like two years.

Then: "I'm already moving."

The line went dead.

I set the phone on the counter. Turned off the faucet. My hands had stopped shaking.

I walked back into the suite. Sat on the edge of the bed. The ultrasound photo stared up at me from the nightstand.

Eight years. Eight pregnancies. Eight losses that tore me apart from the inside.

I'd cried alone in bathrooms. In parked cars. In the middle of the night when Damian was asleep beside me. I never told him how much it hurt. I didn't want to burden him. He'd already sacrificed so much for me. Two fingers. His hand still bore the scars.

I picked up the photo. Traced my daughter's profile with one finger.

Eight babies. Eight murders.

Dressed up as fate. As bad luck. As my body failing me over and over again.

I set the photo back down. Face up.

The door opened. Damian walked in carrying roses and a bottle of champagne. His face lit up when he saw me.

"There's my girl," he said. He crossed the room. Kissed my forehead. Set the flowers on the dresser. "How are you feeling?"

"Good," I said. I smiled. "Excited."

He sat beside me. Put his hand on my belly. "Two more days. Then we finally get to meet her."

"I can't wait," I said.

He leaned closer. His cologne was expensive. Subtle. The same one he'd worn the day we met. The day he threw himself in front of a car to save my life.

The day I fell in love with a lie.

"I love you," he whispered.

I looked into his eyes. Clear. Warm. Sincere.

"I love you too," I said.

He kissed me. Soft. Gentle. Then he pulled back and grinned. "I should let you rest. Big day coming up."

"Big day," I echoed.

He stood. Squeezed my hand. "I'll be back tomorrow. Call me if you need anything."

"I will."

He left. The door clicked shut.

I sat in the dark. The roses on the dresser smelled like a funeral.

I picked up the ultrasound photo one more time. Held it against my chest.

Eight children. Eight lives stolen before they could begin.

I set the photo down. Face up. My daughter's profile in grainy black and white.

I didn't sleep that night.

I counted hours instead.