Fractured Vows

For six years, I accepted my husband’s "muse". I told myself their connection was purely artistic, the price of being Mrs. Vanderbilt.

When I was bleeding in a hospital bed, Liam sneered over the phone, “Chloe gets pregnant, so now you’re faking an illness for attention? Pathetic.”

He dragged me from that bed to her celebration party. In front of all their friends, he shoved me. Hard.

I felt the life I fought so hard for, our child he never knew existed, drain out of me on that cold rooftop floor.

In that moment, the woman who loved him died, too.

Now, he sends flowers, begging for the wife he destroyed to come home. He doesn't understand. This isn't about a broken heart.

He has no idea he just armed his most dangerous enemy.

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1

After ending the call, I photographed the dinner I had meticulously arranged.

I sent the image to my husband, Liam Vanderbilt. A roasted chicken, truffle potatoes, and the six-layer cake I baked for our anniversary.

His reply was instant.

[Is it your birthday? I’m in San Francisco. Meeting with investors. Celebrate on your own.]

A dry laugh escaped my lips. I scraped the entire cake into the trash.

For him, whether it was my birthday or our anniversary, the dates were not important. Liam never remembered them.

But for Chloe Sterling, he kept a dedicated journal. He had almost written down a chronicle of her life since their time at university.

The positive pregnancy test lay on the counter. I slid it out of sight. I’d planned to tell him tonight, over this celebratory dinner. Now, it felt like a cruel joke.

We had been married for six years. Six years and no children.

I had endured three cycles of IVF. Each one was a landscape of pain and failure. I had nearly surrendered. Then, against all odds, I was pregnant.

But my joy was a fleeting thing. I had seen Chloe’s latest post on Instagram. It was possible she had her own IVF procedure on the very same day.

Using my husband’s sperm. And I was the oblivious fool, left in the dark.

I pulled a plate toward me. I had no appetite. But the baby needed nourishment. I forced myself to take a bite of the chicken. The rich, savory scent hit me, and a wave of violent nausea doubled me over.

The retching was relentless. With every heave, a sharp pain sliced through my lower abdomen. Then I felt a distinct, warm wetness between my legs. I looked down. Small, dark spots of blood were blooming on my pants.

Panic seized me. Was this a miscarriage?

No matter my disappointment in Liam, this child was a battle I had won. I could not lose it now.

I grabbed my phone, intending to drive myself to the hospital. But as I opened the front door, the pain intensified into an unbearable cramp. My legs buckled. I slid down the cool plaster of the wall.

I had felt off all morning. I’d spent hours at the clinic for tests. Afterward, I had rushed home, convinced Liam would be there for our anniversary. I had poured my remaining energy into the dinner. The cake.

Maybe it was low blood sugar. I fumbled for my phone, trying to dial 911. My vision swam. My fingers felt too weak to press the screen.

Just then, I heard the sound of a door opening across the hall. My neighbor. He stepped out, saw me crumpled on the floor, and his expression shifted to alarm.

“What happened?” he asked, rushing to my side, his hand steadying my arm.

Relief flooded me. I asked him to take me to the hospital.

After the examination, the doctor’s face was grim. He confirmed it—I was showing signs of a threatened miscarriage. He prescribed a list of medications and spoke to me with grave seriousness.

“You need to take extreme care of yourself. This pregnancy is not stable. You cannot afford any stress or overexertion.”

I saw the look of concern on my neighbor’s face and clarified for the doctor. “He’s not my husband.”

“My husband is away… on business,” I added, the lie tasting like ash.

The doctor nodded, then went over more precautions. “Make sure you share this with your husband. He needs to understand how to care for a pregnant woman.”

I managed a bitter smile.

Oh, I was certain Liam was an expert at caring for someone. It was just a pity it would never be me.