After He Chose His Mistress Over Our Unborn Child

I drifted in and out of consciousness, fragments of reality piercing through the darkness. Pain radiated through my body in waves, but nothing compared to the agony in my heart. Ryan had chosen Victoria. The thought kept repeating, a broken record of betrayal playing in my mind as I finally opened my swollen eyes to harsh fluorescent lights.

"She's awake," a female voice announced. "Mrs. Blackwood, can you hear me?"

I tried to speak, but my throat felt raw. A woman in scrubs leaned over me, her expression professionally concerned.

"I'm Dr. Hayes," she said, checking my vitals. "You're at Hudson Valley Regional. You were found at the bottom of a ravine."

Memory flooded back—the kidnappers, the fall, the rocks tearing into my skin as I tumbled down the embankment. My hands flew to my belly, panic seizing me.

"My baby," I croaked. "Please—"

"Your baby's heartbeat is stable," Dr. Hayes assured me, though something in her eyes made my chest tighten. "You've suffered significant trauma, but we're monitoring both of you closely."

I sank back against the pillows, relief washing over me. At least one thing remained intact in my shattered world.

"Ryan," I whispered. "I need to see Ryan."

Dr. Hayes's expression shifted slightly. "Mr. Blackwood has been notified. He's here, but given your condition—"

"Please," I begged, tears stinging my battered face. "I need to see him."

She hesitated before nodding. "Briefly. You need rest."

Minutes later, I saw him through the glass partition of my ICU room. Ryan stood there, his usually impeccable appearance disheveled, dark circles under his eyes. Our gazes locked, and for a moment, I saw a flicker of the man I'd loved for eight years—the one who'd once been arrested for staging a flash mob proposal, who'd placed his entire empire in my name, who'd promised never to let me spend a night alone.

I reached out a bruised hand toward him, silently pleading.

He took one step forward, then stopped as his phone rang. Glancing at the screen, he answered immediately.

"How is she?" he asked, and I knew he wasn't talking about me. "Yes, I'll be right there. Tell Victoria I'm coming."

He looked at me with conflicted eyes before mouthing, "I'm sorry," and turning away. I watched him disappear down the corridor, leaving me alone with the beeping monitors and the bitter taste of abandonment.

* * *

Three days later, I was discharged against medical advice. I couldn't bear another moment in that hospital, where Ryan visited only briefly between his extended stays at Victoria's bedside. Each time he appeared, he stood farther from my bed, as if my pain might be contagious.

The penthouse doorman's eyes widened when I arrived, my face still bruised, my movements slow and careful.

"Mrs. Blackwood—I mean, Ms. Mitchell," he stammered. "We weren't expecting you today."

"It's still my home," I replied quietly, moving past him to the private elevator.

The moment I stepped into the penthouse, I knew something was wrong. The air smelled different—floral, but not the sunflower fragrance I always used. Designer luggage stood in the entryway, bearing Victoria's monogrammed initials.

I moved through the space like a ghost, noting changes everywhere. New throw pillows on the sofa. Different artwork on the walls. In the master bedroom, Victoria's clothes hung in what had been my closet, her perfumes arranged on my vanity.

My heart pounded as I made my way to the rooftop terrace—my sanctuary, where I'd cultivated a garden of sunflowers that bloomed year-round in carefully regulated conditions. Ryan had built it for me after our first anniversary, knowing how much I loved them.

I pushed open the glass doors and froze. My sunflowers were gone. In their place stood rows of pristine white orchids, their clinical beauty stark against the Manhattan skyline.

"Sarah."

I turned to find Ryan standing in the doorway, his expression guarded.

"You're supposed to be in the hospital," he said, not moving closer.

"Where are my sunflowers?" I asked, my voice barely audible.

He looked away. "Victoria has severe allergies. The sunflowers triggered her asthma."

"So you destroyed them." It wasn't a question.

"They're just flowers, Sarah," he said coldly. "Victoria needs to be comfortable here until—"

"Until what?" I interrupted, anger finally breaking through my shock. "Until you decide I'm worth choosing again?"

His jaw tightened. "You know this isn't what I wanted. The situation with the kidnappers—I had no choice."

"You had every choice," I whispered, one hand resting on my belly where our child still miraculously grew. "And you made it."

As I stood among Victoria's orchids, watching the last traces of my life being systematically erased, I realized the crack in my trust had become a chasm too wide to ever bridge again.