The ultrasound photos crinkled in my purse as I fumbled with my keys, excitement bubbling in my chest despite the exhaustion weighing down my swollen ankles. Dr. Chen had said everything looked perfect—the baby was healthy, positioned well, and I was measuring right on schedule for my due date next week. I'd left the appointment early, practically floating on air, with plans to surprise David with his favorite lasagna and maybe finally settle on a name for our daughter.
The house felt unusually quiet as I pushed open the front door, my belly brushing against the doorframe. Strange. David's car was in the driveway, but no television sounds drifted from the living room, no clatter from the kitchen. Maybe he was napping—he'd been working such long hours lately, staying late at the office, coming home exhausted and distant.
"David?" I called softly, not wanting to wake him if he was resting.
A muffled sound from upstairs made me pause, my hand instinctively moving to cradle my belly. Another sound—rhythmic, urgent. My heart began to race, though I couldn't quite name why.
Each step up the stairs felt heavier than the last, my breathing shallow as that rhythmic sound grew clearer. Unmistakable. The baby kicked hard against my ribs, as if sensing my rising panic.
Our bedroom door stood slightly ajar.
I pushed it open.
The scene burned itself into my memory with crystalline clarity: David's bare back, muscles tensing as he moved over a woman whose long, dark hair spilled across my pillow—our pillow. Her manicured nails raked down his shoulders, leaving red trails on his skin. The sounds they made, intimate and raw, echoed in the room where I'd dreamed of bringing our daughter home.
My purse slipped from nerveless fingers, hitting the hardwood floor with a dull thud.
They froze.
The woman turned her head lazily toward the sound, and I felt the ground shift beneath me. Those ice-blue eyes, that perfect face with its sharp cheekbones and cruel smile—I knew that face. It had haunted my nightmares for years after high school.
Victoria Blackwood.
The queen bee who had made my teenage years a living hell. The girl who had pushed me into lockers, "accidentally" spilled coffee on my homework, whispered poisonous words that made me question my worth every single day. The one person I'd been grateful to leave behind forever when I graduated.
And now she was here, in my bed, with my husband, while I stood nine months pregnant with his child.
Victoria's lips curved into that same satisfied smirk I remembered from high school hallways. She didn't scramble to cover herself or show even a flicker of shame. Instead, she stretched languidly, like a cat in a sunbeam, her gaze never leaving mine.
"Hello, Emma," she purred, her voice honey-sweet with malice. "You're home early."
David had finally turned around, his face flushed and hair disheveled. For a moment, he looked genuinely startled—caught. But then something shifted in his expression, a hardening I'd never seen before.
"Emma." His voice was flat, matter-of-fact, as if I'd walked in on him reading the newspaper instead of destroying our marriage.
I opened my mouth, but no words came. The baby kicked frantically now, responding to my thundering heartbeat, my ragged breathing. My hands trembled as I gripped the doorframe for support.
Victoria rose from the bed with fluid grace, completely unbothered by her nudity. She gathered her clothes with deliberate slowness, each movement calculated to maintain the power dynamic she'd established. Even now, even here, she was the predator and I was still that frightened girl hiding in the library.
She dressed piece by piece, never hurrying, never breaking eye contact. When she was fully clothed, she walked past me in the doorway, close enough that I caught her expensive perfume—jasmine and something darker, more dangerous.
"See you around, Emma," she whispered against my ear, her breath warm and intimate in a way that made my skin crawl.
And then she was gone, her heels clicking down the stairs, the front door closing with a soft click that somehow sounded louder than a slam.
I stood there, frozen, my whole world crumbling while David casually reached for his boxers.
The baby gave one final, violent kick, and suddenly I couldn't breathe.
