While I Was in Labor, He Was Welcoming Another Woman’s Child

Vivian's voice drifted through the wall, coy and teasing. "He was just born. How could he possibly be talking?"

Benedict's tone was dripping with adoration. "He's our son. Of course he's smart. He'll pick it up in no time, won't you, Lawrence?"

I clutched my stillborn daughter, her body still warm, and collapsed forward, howling into the sheets. Benedict had promised me—if it was a boy, Lawrence. If it was a girl, Layla.

Now I couldn't even keep my child, and the name had been given to someone else.

A long time passed.

Benedict strolled in, smiling carelessly as he brushed the hair from my forehead. "You're awake? Sweetheart, you worked so hard, giving me such a beautiful daughter. Here—a little something for your trouble."

He pressed a small cash gift into my hand. I glanced past him and saw the baby in the bassinet beside the neighboring bed. That was when I realized—Benedict had it wrong. He thought the other woman's baby was mine.

"Benedict, don't you have anything to explain to me?"

He blinked, caught off guard. "Babe, I swear there's nothing between me and Vivian."

"I know you're still upset that she and I had a child together, but she went through labor for my sake. I have to take responsibility for her."

I opened my mouth to speak again, but a pained cry from Vivian's room pulled his attention away.

At the same moment, a nurse walked in carrying a small urn. She frowned, glancing between me and Benedict.

"This is—"

But before she could finish, Benedict was already gone, rushing to Vivian's side. He caught her in his arms and snapped, "Are you out of your mind?!"

"You just gave birth! You can't be getting out of bed by yourself!"

Vivian's eyes brimmed with tears. "I'm sorry, Benedict. I wanted to go apologize to Phoebe. I was so selfish. I just wanted so badly to have a child who looked like your brother, to keep me company..."

Benedict wiped her tears away with unbearable tenderness. "What are you crying for? You're not the other woman. Technically, you're the one on my marriage certificate. Phoebe's the mistress."

In that moment, my heart split open like a wound torn with a dull blade. Tears fell from my eyes, heavy and fat, shattering against the floor.

The day he proposed, Benedict's eyes had held nothing but me.

"Phoebe, marrying you is the greatest blessing of my life. I will never, ever let you down."

Now he was calling me the mistress.

The day I was discharged, Benedict instinctively guided Vivian into the passenger seat.

When he saw me freeze, he offered an explanation. "Phoebe, Vivian's not feeling well, and she gets carsick, so..."

The sticker on the passenger-side window still read "Phoebe's Seat."

The irony was suffocating.

On the drive home, Benedict transferred me $131.40, as if afraid I might be angry. "Phoebe, our daughter's still in the incubator. If you need more money, just say the word. Your husband can afford it."

A metallic taste surged up the back of my throat.

I almost told him. The baby was gone.

But my gaze drifted past the screen of my phone and landed on Vivian in the passenger seat, picking up her own phone. She'd just accepted a transfer from Benedict.

$1,314,520.

In the silence of that car, an invisible handprint burned across my face.

Benedict brought Vivian back to our home without a shred of hesitation. "Phoebe, Vivian's still recovering from the delivery. She needs someone to look after her. Can you just be understanding about this? For me?"

If this had been before, I would have screamed. I would have torn the walls down.

But now, something in me simply... gave out.

"Fine."

Benedict looked stunned for a second, then slid a gold bracelet onto my wrist. "Good girl. I knew you'd be the bigger person."

But the bracelet—it was the same design Vivian had shown off on her social media.

I stood there and watched them empty our bedroom. Watched them move Vivian's things into the room that had been ours. Our home. Our bed.

My heart cooled, degree by degree.

Then my phone buzzed. A notification from a bargain-shopping app, linked through Naomi's profile page. I tapped through, scrolling idly.

And there it was. The exact same bracelet on my wrist. Listed at $9.99. Fake gold.

My skull hummed with a high-pitched ringing. Ten years. Ten years of love, and in Benedict's eyes, all I was worth was a $9.99 knockoff.