Audrey Hanson POV:
I just stared at him, stunned by the sheer venom in his voice. This wasn't the reaction of a man who might suspect the child was his. This was the reaction of a man who felt utterly, completely betrayed.
"I asked you a question," he growled, grabbing my wrist. His grip was like steel. "Are you pregnant?"
"Yes," I whispered, the word barely audible.
His face twisted into a mask of pure disgust. "You have some nerve, Audrey. You run off for five years, God knows with who, and then you show up on my doorstep, pregnant, expecting what? That I'll take you back? That I'll raise another man's bastard?"
The word 'bastard' struck me like a physical blow. Tears pricked my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. I would not give him the satisfaction.
"You think this is all some scheme?" I shot back, my voice trembling with rage. "You think I got pregnant just to come back and ruin your perfect new life?"
"It's a little coincidental, don't you think?" he sneered. "You show up out of the blue, with this ridiculous time-travel story and a baby on the way. You're my wife's worst nightmare come to life. Let me be clear. I am married to Kisha. She is pregnant with my child. You will not harm her. You will not harm our baby. If you do, I swear to God, Audrey, I will make you regret the day you were born."
The threat hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. He meant it. This man, who once promised to protect me from everything, was now the one I was most afraid of.
"It's your child, Clayton," I said, the words tearing from my raw throat. "This baby is yours."
The sound of shattering porcelain echoed in the hallway. Kisha stood by the wall, a broken mug at her feet, her hand covering her mouth in a perfect imitation of shock. Her eyes were wide and swimming with tears.
"Oh, Audrey," she whispered, her voice trembling. "How could you say something so cruel?"
Clayton's reaction was instantaneous. He dropped my wrist as if it were on fire and rushed to her side. "Kisha! Are you okay? Did the glass hit you? Are you hurt?"
He fussed over her, his voice thick with a panic and concern I hadn't heard from him since I'd arrived in this nightmare future. He checked her hands, her feet, his touch gentle and full of love.
"I'm fine, Clay," she sobbed into his chest. "I just... I can't believe she would lie like that. To try and hurt us."
He held her close, stroking her hair. "Shh, it's okay. I'm here. She won't hurt you." He turned his head, his eyes locking with mine over Kisha's shoulder. They were filled with a cold, murderous fury.
"Get out of my sight," he seethed. "Go to your room. And don't you dare come near my wife again."
Kisha looked up at him, her face a mask of tear-stained innocence. "Clay, don't be so hard on her," she whispered, loud enough for me to hear. "She's just confused and hurting. We have to be understanding."
He kissed her forehead, his expression softening into one of pure adoration. "You're too good, Kisha. But I won't let her upset you." He scooped her up into his arms, as if she were a fragile doll, and carried her down the hall towards their bedroom.
I stood there, frozen, as the sound of their door closing echoed in the silence. The laughter bubbling up in my throat was hysterical, tinged with madness. It was a joke. A sick, twisted joke. He believed her so completely, so blindly. He had looked at me as if I were a monster, a snake slithering into his perfect garden.
Maria, the maid, appeared with a dustpan and brush, clucking her tongue as she swept up the broken shards of the mug. She didn't look at me, but I could feel her disdain. I could hear the whispers of the other staff as I walked past them, their eyes following me with a mixture of pity and contempt.
"Can you believe her? Claiming the baby is Mr. Young's."
"Shameless. After what she did to him."
"She's probably just after his money."
The rest of the day was a blur of humiliation. At dinner, I sat alone at the long dining table. Clayton and Kisha ate in their room, "to avoid any further stress on the baby," as Maria informed me with a sneer. My food was brought to me by a different maid, who watched me eat every bite, as if she expected me to poison myself.
"Mr. Young's orders," she said, when I asked her to leave. "We can't be too careful."
I was a prisoner in my own home. A dangerous element to be contained and monitored.
Back in my room, I took out the plane ticket. The flimsy paper was my only solace. Six more days. I just had to survive for six more days.
"I'm leaving," I whispered to the empty room, to my baby, to the ghosts of my parents. "We're going home. And we are never, ever coming back."
That night, a sharp, cramping pain woke me from a fitful sleep. It started low in my belly, a dull ache that quickly intensified into a vicious, twisting agony. I curled into a ball, sweat beading on my forehead.
Panic seized me. The baby. Something was wrong with the baby.
I stumbled out of bed, my legs shaking. I had to get help. I had to find Clayton. Despite everything, he was the only one I could think of.
The pain was so intense I could barely walk. I crawled out of my room and down the hallway, my breath coming in ragged sobs. The house was dark and silent.
"Clayton," I gasped, my voice a weak croak. "Help me."
The pain was a white-hot fire, tearing me apart from the inside. I reached the living room and collapsed onto the floor, my vision blurring.
"Please," I cried out, the sound swallowed by the vast, empty house. "Somebody, please help me."
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