I stood outside Curtis's office door, the manila folder in my hands feeling like it weighed a thousand pounds. Inside were bank statements, medical records, surveillance photos—three years of systematic deception laid bare in black and white. My private investigator had been thorough. Too thorough. Each page was another nail in the coffin of my marriage.
I didn't knock. The days of asking permission in my own home had ended the moment I'd discovered the truth.
Curtis looked up from his laptop, his expression shifting from surprise to carefully constructed concern. "Hazel. I didn't hear you come in."
"Four abortions." My voice came out steadier than I expected. I dropped the folder onto his desk, photographs spilling across the polished mahogany. "Not miscarriages. Abortions. And you paid for every single one."
His jaw tightened. For a moment, I thought I saw something—guilt, perhaps, or shame—flicker across his face. Then it hardened into something cold and defensive.
"You had me followed?" He stood, his chair scraping against the floor. "You hired someone to spy on my family?"
"Your family?" The laugh that escaped me was bitter, jagged. "She murdered my mother, Curtis. She's not your family. She's your—what? Your mistress? Your obsession?"
His fist slammed down on the desk so hard the lamp rattled. I flinched, but held my ground.
"Don't you dare," he snarled, his voice low and dangerous in a way I'd never heard before. "Saanvi is traumatized. Fragile. She's been through things you couldn't possibly understand. Those procedures were necessary—medically necessary—and you standing here with your amateur detective work, making vile accusations—"
"Medically necessary?" I grabbed one of the clinic invoices, shoving it toward him. "This one was scheduled three weeks in advance. There's nothing emergent about that."
"You don't know what you're talking about." He snatched the paper from my hand, crumpling it. "This is what happens when you let jealousy poison your mind. You see conspiracies where there's only a man trying to help his sister survive."
The gaslighting was so smooth, so practiced, I almost doubted myself. Almost. But I'd spent too many nights cross-referencing dates, too many hours listening to recorded phone calls.
"I found the forum post," I said quietly. "The one asking for advice about her eighth week of pregnancy. Her 'history' of losses. You wrote about her like she was your wife, not mine."
Something flickered in his eyes—panic, quickly masked. "She needed support. I was being a good brother."
"She wasn't even pregnant when she killed my mother." The words tasted like poison. "The whole thing was a lie to keep her out of prison. And you helped her. You chose her over justice. Over me. Over my mother's memory."
He moved around the desk, reaching for me, but I stepped back. His hands dropped to his sides, and for a moment he looked lost. Then his expression hardened again, defensive walls slamming into place.
"Get out," he said coldly. "Get out of my office and stop acting like some vindictive child. You're my wife. Act like it."
I left without another word, the folder remaining scattered across his desk like evidence at a crime scene.
Three weeks later, I stood in our bathroom, staring at the pregnancy test in my trembling hands. Two pink lines. Clear and unmistakable.
A baby. Our baby.
Despite everything—the lies, the betrayal, the growing chasm between us—a spark of hope ignited in my chest. Maybe this could change things. Maybe a child would finally make Curtis see what truly mattered. Maybe he would choose us.
I found him in the living room, working on his laptop as usual. My heart hammered as I approached.
"Curtis." My voice came out soft, almost shy. "I have something to tell you."
He looked up, his expression guarded. We'd barely spoken since our confrontation in his office.
I held out the test. "I'm pregnant."
For a moment, his face transformed. Pure, undiluted joy flooded his features, and I saw the man I'd fallen in love with—the one who'd promised to make me the happiest woman in the world.
"Hazel." He stood, pulling me into his arms. "That's... that's incredible. We're going to be parents."
I let myself sink into his embrace, let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, everything would be okay.
Then his phone rang.
He pulled back, glancing at the screen. Saanvi's name flashed across it.
"I should take this," he said, already moving toward his office. "Just give me a minute."
Something in my chest twisted. I followed him, stopping just outside the door he'd left slightly ajar.
"Saanvi, calm down." His voice was low, soothing. The same tone he'd just used with me. "What's wrong?"
I couldn't hear her words, but her shrill voice carried through the phone.
"I know, I know," Curtis continued. "But this isn't about choosing. You're my sister. That will never change."
More hysterical sounds from the phone.
"Don't say that." His voice sharpened with panic. "Don't even think that. You're not losing me. A baby doesn't change—"
She was screaming now. I heard phrases cutting through: "abandon me," "just like everyone else," "I can't live without you."
"Saanvi, listen to me." Curtis's voice took on a desperate edge. "I will always be here for you. Always. Don't do anything stupid. I'm coming over right now. Just—stay where you are. Stay safe."
He ended the call and nearly collided with me in the doorway. Guilt flashed across his face, followed quickly by defensive anger.
"She's threatening to hurt herself," he said, grabbing his keys. "I have to go."
"You just found out you're going to be a father," I said, my voice hollow. "And you're leaving."
"She's in crisis, Hazel."
"She's always in crisis." The words came out flat, emotionless. I felt something inside me go cold and still. "And you always go running."
He paused at the door, his hand on the knob. For a moment, I thought he might stay. Might choose us.
"I'll be back soon," he said. "We'll celebrate then. I promise."
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
I stood alone in the hallway, one hand pressed against my still-flat stomach, and finally understood the truth I'd been denying for four years: Curtis would never choose me. Not over her. Not even for our child.
The last ember of hope in my chest flickered and died.
