After returning home from a business trip, I found a pregnancy test in the trash.
Once, even a trace of perfume on Ian Delgado's collar would have sent me spiraling—interrogating him, tracking his movements, demanding answers.
But this time, I simply called the housekeeper to change the sheets and reminded Ian of his promise.
"You said only my child would ever be your heir."
A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. His arm tightened around my waist.
"Then let's make one now."
Hunger flickered in his eyes—but his phone buzzed, and just like that, the moment shattered. His mistress. Always her.
I watched him grab his keys and rush out the door.
Good. Relief loosened the knot in my chest. He hadn't noticed the red, swollen mark on my collarbone—the one that wasn't his.
——
Half an hour later, my phone lit up with a photo: an abortion consent form, signed and stamped.
Good baby, her child is gone. You owe me one now.
The screen glowed harsh in the darkness, but it was the chat background that twisted the knife.
A family portrait. The three of us.
Me. Ian. And our daughter, barely one year old, her cheeks round and flushed with life.
I don't know how long I lay there. Long enough for the tears to dry and leave salt trails on my skin.
The bedroom door creaked open. The mattress dipped as Ian slid in behind me, his chest warm against my back.
"Good baby," he murmured against my hair. "Let's make a child."
Before I could speak, his hands were already working at my nightgown, peeling it away with practiced ease. His lips traced down my spine. He reached for the lamp.
I caught his wrist. "Don't. Leave it off. This is... nice."
Moonlight spilled through the curtains, painting everything silver—including the lipstick smear on his collar. A shade I'd never worn.
Acid surged up my throat. I lurched to the edge of the bed, retching. And in the silence between heaves, I heard it—a baby's wail, thin and desperate, echoing from somewhere I couldn't reach.
When our daughter turned one, Ian had been in a hurry. His mistress wanted to go shopping. So he'd fed the baby too fast, laid her down before she'd finished burping, and left.
While he tangled with his lover in some hotel room, my baby choked on her own milk.
By the time anyone found her, that pink, perfect face had turned blue.
A glass of water appeared at my side. Ian rubbed slow circles on my back, his voice dripping with patience.
"Grace. You're thinking about that again, aren't you?"
That. I almost laughed. To him, our daughter's death was just a that—an inconvenience, a hiccup in his schedule.
To me, it was a wound that refused to close.
He wiped the corner of my mouth with his thumb, but his tone hardened. "Don't let this become something we can never move past."
I nodded. Forced my legs to carry me to the bathroom. Rinsed the bile from my mouth.
When I came back, the room was empty.
My phone chimed.
Not Ian this time. His mistress.
He'd spoiled her rotten. She didn't even bother pretending to be subtle anymore.
You really think Ian would let me abort his baby?
He only faked the surgery form because he was scared you'd lose it and hurt me.
Once I give birth, he's kicking you out. No money. No nothing. Just your pathetic, dried-up self.
And then—a photo.
She was naked, sprawled across silk sheets. Ian knelt beside her, pressing his lips to her still-flat stomach like it held something sacred.
I saved the image.
Then I dialed a number I'd memorized weeks ago.
"The medicine you gave me," I said. "You're certain it causes permanent sterility?"
A low chuckle crackled through the speaker. "Sterility? Sweetheart, I was worried that old dog might still come sniffing around you, so I doubled the dose. He won't just be sterile—he won't be able to perform at all."
My lips curved.
So Ian would be wearing two horns soon. His mistress's bastard child, and whatever grew inside me now—neither would carry his blood.
But none of that mattered yet. For now, we still had roles to play.
The devoted husband. The loving wife.
And I had always been an excellent actress.
