After He Chose His Mistress Over Our Unborn Child

The Metropolitan Museum of Art glittered like a jewel box, the annual spring gala in full swing. I stood near a Monet, one hand protectively cradling my belly—now seven months along—while watching Ryan across the room. He was playing his part perfectly, his hand resting on the small of Victoria's back as they laughed with investors. The diamond on her finger caught the light, throwing fractured rainbows against the wall.

"Sarah, you look absolutely radiant," Martin Chen, one of Ryan's board members, approached with genuine warmth. "How are you feeling?"

I summoned a smile. "As well as can be expected."

His eyes flickered with understanding. Everyone in Ryan's circle knew our divorce was supposedly temporary—a business arrangement. But the sympathetic glances were becoming harder to bear.

"The fresh air on the terrace is wonderful," Martin said. "You should step out for a moment. In your condition..."

I nodded gratefully and made my way toward the east terrace. As I passed Ryan, our eyes met briefly. Something flashed across his face—regret? Longing? Before I could interpret it, Victoria tightened her grip on his arm, drawing his attention back to her.

The terrace was quieter, with fairy lights strung overhead and Manhattan spread out below like a carpet of stars. I inhaled deeply, trying to calm the flutter of anxiety that had become my constant companion.

"Needed a break too?"

I turned to find Victoria standing behind me, her white silk gown ethereal in the moonlight. My body tensed involuntarily.

"The waiter mentioned they're serving those little lemon tarts you've been craving," she said, her voice honeyed with false concern. "I thought you might want to know."

Before I could respond, a server approached with a tray. "Ladies, would you care to try our signature champagne? Or perhaps sparkling water?"

Something felt off. The server's eyes didn't meet ours, and his uniform seemed slightly too large.

"No, thank—" I began, but Victoria interrupted.

"We'd love to," she smiled, reaching for a flute.

That's when everything happened at once. The server dropped his tray with a crash. Two more men appeared from the shadows. Something rough covered my mouth and nose—a cloth soaked in chemicals. I tried to scream, to fight, but darkness crowded my vision as I heard Victoria's muffled protests beside me.

* * *

I awoke to cold concrete beneath me and the taste of fear in my mouth. My hands were bound behind my back, my ankles tied together. Through the disorientation, I became aware of labored breathing beside me.

"She's awake," a male voice announced.

I blinked against harsh fluorescent lighting, my vision clearing to reveal a warehouse space. Victoria sat tied to a chair a few feet away, her perfect updo now disheveled, mascara streaking her cheeks. Her breathing was rapid and shallow.

"I need my insulin," she gasped. "Please, my purse—"

"Shut up," snapped one of three masked men. He pointed to a laptop set up on a crate. "Your boyfriend gets to decide which one of you needs medical attention first."

My blood ran cold as I understood. "Ryan," I whispered.

The tallest kidnapper turned the laptop toward us. On screen was Ryan's ashen face, flanked by FBI agents in a conference room. His eyes widened when he saw us.

"Sarah! Victoria!" His voice cracked. "Are you hurt? Who are these people?"

"Twenty million, Blackwood," the kidnapper stated flatly. "But we're feeling sporting. You don't have to pay for both of them."

Ryan's expression hardened. "What are you saying?"

"Choose," the man said, pulling out a gun. "Your pregnant ex-wife or your diabetic fiancée. One leaves with us now. One stays until payment clears. Simple."

"This is insane," Ryan shouted. "I'll pay whatever you want—"

"Clock's ticking," the kidnapper interrupted, pointing his gun at Victoria, whose breathing had become more labored. "Your fiancée's having a reaction. No insulin for hours now. And your ex looks ready to pop that baby any day."

I stared at the screen, my heart pounding so hard I thought it might break my ribs. This couldn't be happening. Not after everything we'd been through. Despite the divorce papers, despite Victoria, Ryan would choose me. He had to. I carried his child.

"Ryan," I pleaded, tears streaming down my face. "Please."

I watched as someone off-screen whispered in Ryan's ear. His face contorted with anguish as he glanced between us.

"I choose..." he began, his voice breaking.

Time seemed to slow as I watched his lips form the next word.

"Victoria."

The world collapsed around me. I couldn't breathe, couldn't think. The kidnappers moved immediately, unlocking Victoria's restraints and half-carrying her toward a side door.

"No!" I screamed, thrashing against my bonds. "Ryan! How could you?"

The last thing I saw on the screen was Ryan's face—torn, guilty, but resolute—before one of the men slammed the laptop shut.

"Looks like you're staying with us, mama," the tallest kidnapper said, his voice cold with amusement. "Your husband made his choice."

Fury surged through me, giving me strength I didn't know I had. "He's not my husband anymore," I spat.

The first blow came without warning—a backhand across my face that sent me sprawling. Then another. And another. Through the pain, one thought burned like acid: Ryan had chosen her. Over me. Over our baby.

Through swollen eyes, I watched the warehouse door open to the night. Strong hands grabbed me, dragging me outside. I felt rocks and dirt beneath me as they pulled me toward a steep embankment.

"Nothing personal," one of them muttered. "Just business."

Then I was falling, tumbling down jagged rocks, my body curling instinctively around my belly as I tried to protect the life inside me. Pain exploded everywhere as I hit the ground below, and darkness claimed me once more.