Before Anton could process the word divorce, the door burst open.
Beatrice rushed in. She wasn’t wearing the smug, venomous expression she had worn earlier when she thought I was asleep. Now, her face was blotchy, her mascara running in dark streaks down her cheeks. A perfect performance.
“Donna!” she wailed, throwing herself toward the bed. “Oh god, Donna, please!”
She grabbed my hand before I could pull it away, her grip damp and clammy.
“I didn’t mean it!” she sobbed, her voice high and frantic. “You have to believe me! I love you like a sister! I would never hurt you or the baby intentionally. It was just soup! It must have been an allergic reaction, or… or a bad batch of herbs! I’m so sorry!”
I looked down at her. I looked at the woman who, hours ago, had commanded my husband to impregnate her while I lay unconscious.
“Get off me,” I said, my voice shaking with suppressed rage.
“Please, Donna!” Beatrice ignored me, sliding off the edge of the bed to her knees. She clasped her hands together in a prayer of supplication, bowing her head. “I’ll do anything! I’ll pay for the hospital bills. I’ll go to church every day. Just please… tell David to stop. Don’t send me to jail. I can’t survive in jail!”
“You should have thought of that before you poisoned me,” I spat, yanking my hand free. “You killed my son, Beatrice. There is no apology for that. You are going to prison, and I hope you rot there.”
“Come on, Donna!” Anton barked, stepping forward.
I snapped my head toward him. He wasn’t looking at me with concern. He was looking at Beatrice with panic.
“Look at her!” Anton gestured to the woman sobbing on the linoleum. “She’s on her knees! She’s begging you! She’s humiliated herself! Isn’t that enough for you?”
“Enough?” I laughed, a dry, broken sound. “She took a life, Anton! A life we made!”
“It was an accident!” Anton yelled, his patience snapping. “Why are you being so vindictive? She’s family! She’s been part of my life since we were five years old. I cannot let you destroy her over a mistake.”
“So you choose her,” I said. It wasn’t a question anymore.
“I choose sanity!” Anton retorted. “You’re being emotional and irrational. You’re asking for a divorce? You’re suing my best friend? It’s ridiculous.”
He reached down and hauled Beatrice to her feet, wrapping an arm around her trembling shoulders. He looked at me with cold, dead eyes.
“I’m going to take Beatrice home. She’s in no state to be here, and clearly, neither are you. We’ll talk when you’ve calmed down and dropped this insanity.”
“If you walk out that door with her,” I warned, my voice low, “don’t bother coming back.”
Anton didn’t even hesitate. “Don’t wait up.”
He turned and walked out, guiding the woman who murdered our child out of the room, leaving his wife alone in the silence.
The silence was heavier this time. It pressed down on my chest, suffocating me.
I stared at the closed door, the tears finally spilling over. But they weren’t tears for the baby this time. They were tears for the five years I had wasted on a lie.
My mind drifted back. Back to the beginning.
I remembered our wedding day. It had been a grand affair, the merger of two powerful families. I remembered walking down the aisle, seeing Anton at the altar. He had looked handsome, dashing in his tuxedo. But he hadn’t smiled. Not really.
I had thought it was nerves. I had thought he was just stoic.
I remembered the whispers at the reception. “Where’s Beatrice? Why isn’t she here?”
Beatrice had been in Paris then. "Studying art," they said. But now, the pieces clicked into place. She hadn’t left to study. She had left because she couldn’t watch him marry someone else.
I was never the choice. I was the placeholder.
Anton and Beatrice had grown up together. They were the golden pair. But my family had the logistics empire Anton’s grandfather needed. So, Beatrice was sent away, and I was brought in.
I had been so naive. I thought I could make him love me. I thought if I was the perfect wife, the perfect hostess, if I gave him a son… he would forget her. I thought five years of marriage meant something.
But it meant nothing.
Every dinner, every vacation, every "I love you"—it was all performance art. He was just biding his time, waiting for the merger to be finalized, waiting for the moment he could discard me and bring her back.
And today, they had accelerated the timeline.
I felt a fresh wave of nausea. I wasn’t just a grieving mother. I was a fool. A stand-in. A barrier to their "true love" that they had tried to remove permanently.
The harsh sound of my phone on the bedside table snapped me out of the spiral.
I wiped my face with the back of my hand, sniffing. I grabbed the phone without looking at the ID.
“David?” I choked out. “Did you file it?”
“Ms. Donna?” Sarah, David’s executive assistant.
“Sarah?” I frowned, sitting up straighter. “Where is David? Why are you calling from his line?”
“I… I didn’t know who else to call,” Sarah stammered, and I could hear the background noise of chaos—phones ringing, people shouting. “Something terrible has happened.”
“What is it?” My heart began to hammer against my ribs. “Is he okay?”
“The police are here,” Sarah whispered, her voice cracking. “They just raided the office.”
“Police?” I gripped the phone tighter. “What are you talking about?”
“They arrested him, Donna. They took David away in handcuffs five minutes ago… they said he did something illegal!”
