My Husband Tampered with My Pregnancies to Protect His Mistress

The fever hit me like a wave crashing over my head. 102°F. My skin felt like it was burning from the inside out, every inch of me radiating heat that seemed to have nowhere to go. I lay in our bed—Frederick's bed, really, since he paid for everything—and tried to remember the last time I'd felt this sick. It had been months ago, after the seventh miscarriage. The doctor had called it a stress reaction, as though my body's failure to carry a child was somehow my fault. I pressed my thumb against the inside of my wrist, that small gesture I'd developed over years of learning to contain myself, and waited for the room to stop spinning.

The phone rang at 2:17 AM. I knew the exact time because the digital clock on Frederick's nightstand glowed red in the darkness, numbers sharp enough to cut. My hand shook as I reached for the device, and I could hear the weakness in my own voice when I answered.

"Arlette." Frederick's voice was crisp, businesslike. No inquiry about my health, no question about why I might sound strange at this hour. Just my name, stated as a fact.

"Yes," I managed, my throat dry and cracked.

"Paulina's department needs the quarterly strategy presentation revised by morning. The original doesn't address the Singapore expansion. You'll handle it." His tone was flat, non-negotiable. Not a request. An order.

I closed my eyes, feeling the heat pulse behind my eyelids. "Of course. I'll take care of it."

"The files are on my desk. Password is Arlette's birthday." He paused, and I could almost see him checking his watch, the way he always did when something inconvenienced him. "I need this perfect, Arlette. Paulina can't be expected to handle these details."

The way he said her name—Paulina—like a prayer, like something precious. I'd heard that tone before, but tonight it cut deeper somehow. "I understand," I whispered.

The line went dead.

I sat up slowly, the silk sheets pooling around my waist. My nightgown clung to my skin, damp with sweat. The thought of standing, of walking to Frederick's study, of sitting at his desk and working while my body burned from the inside out—it seemed impossible. But I did it anyway.

The hallway stretched forever. Each step was an exercise in will, my bare feet silent against the marble floors that Frederick had imported from Italy because "only the best for us." The irony wasn't lost on me as I wrapped myself in the robe hanging on the back of the bedroom door, a cashmere thing he'd bought because the color matched my eyes. Or so he'd said.

His study was immaculate, as always. Everything in its place, not a paper out of alignment. I'd once seen him fire a housekeeper for moving his fountain pen three inches to the left. The memory made me smile, though there was no humor in it. I pressed my thumb against my wrist again and sat in his leather chair, the leather cold against my fevered skin.

The presentation files weren't immediately visible. I began opening drawers, searching for the USB drive or the folder he'd mentioned. My fingers trembled as I moved things aside, careful to return each item exactly as I'd found it. Frederick would notice otherwise.

That's when I saw the tablet. His personal one, the one he never let anyone touch. It was unlocked, sitting on the edge of the desk like a trap waiting to be sprung. I shouldn't have touched it. I knew I shouldn't. But my fever-addled brain and the late hour and something else—some instinct I couldn't name—made me pick it up.

My thumb brushed the screen, and a voice memo app opened. There were dozens of recordings, all labeled with dates and names. My eyes caught one from three days ago: "Marcus Webb—Legal Review." Marcus was the company lawyer, the one who'd handled our prenuptial agreement. The one who'd always smiled at me with something that looked like pity.

I pressed play.

Frederick's voice filled the quiet room, clinical and cold. "Marcus, this is Frederick Richards. I'm dictating notes for the Arlette Franklin matter. The marriage certificate requires another layer of protection—ensure the forgery holds under any legal scrutiny. Also, review the medical records from Dr. Winters regarding the vitamin tampering. Nine miscarriages should be sufficient to maintain her dependency, but we need to avoid suspicion. Finally, check Atlas Franklin's death certificate. The medical intervention needs to appear natural. Arlette must never suspect her brother's death was accelerated. She's too valuable as a shield for Paulina. End of recording."

The tablet slipped from my fingers and clattered onto the desk.

I didn't scream. I didn't cry. I didn't make a sound. I just sat there, my fever momentarily forgotten, as the truth crashed over me like ice water. Everything—the marriage, the pregnancies, Atlas's death—all of it had been orchestrated. A performance. A manipulation. A lie.

My hand moved to my wrist, thumb pressing against the pulse point. I could feel my heart beating, steady and strong despite the fever. Something inside me, something that had been warm and alive and trusting, simply... went cold. Not numb. Not broken. Cold. Calculating.

I sat there for eleven minutes without moving. Then I reached for the tablet, found the presentation files, and began to work.

By dawn, the fever had broken. I finished the presentation with perfect precision, just as Frederick had ordered. I brought him his coffee when he woke, kissed his cheek when he left for the office, and watched his car disappear from the penthouse window.

That afternoon, I walked three blocks to a drugstore I'd never visited before. With cash, I purchased a burner phone. I found a quiet corner in the park and dialed a number I'd memorized months ago, after a chance encounter at a charity gala.

"Nicolas Graham's office," a crisp voice answered.

"This is Arlette Franklin," I said, my voice steady as stone. "I need to meet with Mr. Graham. Today, if possible. It's regarding Richards Group."

There was a pause. "One moment."

The seconds stretched like hours. Then another voice came on the line, deeper, more measured. "Mrs. Richards. This is unexpected."

"Mr. Graham," I replied, "I believe we have mutual interests to discuss. I'd prefer to do so in person. Somewhere private."

"I can meet you at the Westfield Hotel in two hours. The Meridian Suite."

"I'll be there."

I ended the call and looked up at the clear blue sky. For the first time in years, I felt something like clarity. The fever was gone, but another kind of heat was building inside me. Not the chaotic fire of illness, but the controlled burn of purpose.

I had eleven hours to plan my husband's destruction.