After His Affair, She Aborted His Secret Child

I slipped the melatonin pill between my fingers and pretended to swallow it, washing it down with a theatrical gulp of water. Ryan watched from the edge of our bed, his concerned expression so convincing that for a fleeting moment, I questioned what I'd seen on his phone.

"You okay, babe? You've been quiet all evening," he said, his voice carrying that gentle tone he used when he thought I was being irrational.

"Just tired," I murmured, placing the glass on my nightstand. "Big project tomorrow."

He nodded, seemingly satisfied with my explanation, and leaned over to kiss my forehead. "Get some rest then. I might stay up a bit longer to review those investor documents."

I closed my eyes and turned away, feeling the mattress shift as he stood. The investor documents. Another lie that once would have sounded so reasonable. Now each word from his mouth felt tainted, suspect.

I regulated my breathing, making it deep and even as I listened to him move around our bedroom. The soft click of his laptop opening. The gentle tap of keys. The occasional sigh that I used to find endearing. I lay perfectly still, my back to him, counting the minutes.

At 12:45 AM, I heard him close the laptop. The bathroom light flicked on, then off. He brushed his teeth—always for exactly two minutes, a habit I once found adorably meticulous. Now it seemed like just another performance in his carefully choreographed life.

He slipped into bed beside me, his weight creating a familiar dip in the mattress. I felt his hand hover near my shoulder, then withdraw without touching me. Within fifteen minutes, his breathing had settled into the rhythm of sleep—or what he wanted me to believe was sleep.

I continued my charade, remaining motionless even as my mind raced through the possibilities of what might happen next. At precisely 1:12 AM, according to the glowing numbers on our bedside clock, Ryan stirred. With practiced stealth, he eased himself from the bed, pausing when the springs creaked slightly.

I kept my breathing steady, fighting the urge to open my eyes. I heard him dress in the dark—the soft rustle of fabric, the muted jingle of his belt buckle. He moved with the confidence of someone who had done this many times before.

At 1:15 AM, the front door clicked shut. I counted to sixty before throwing back the covers and rushing to the window. Below, in the glow of the streetlights, Ryan's BMW pulled smoothly away from the curb.

My hands trembled as I pulled on jeans and a hoodie. I slipped my feet into the first shoes I found—my old slippers—and grabbed my car keys. Baxter raised his head from his bed in the corner, his eyes questioning.

"I'll be back," I whispered, not knowing if it was true.

I followed Ryan's car at a distance, grateful for the late hour and empty streets that made it easier to remain undetected. My heart pounded so loudly I could hear it in my ears, drowning out the hum of my engine. When he turned onto Sunset Boulevard, I knew. Soho House. The exclusive members-only club where he took important clients—or so he'd always told me.

I parked across the street, watching as he handed his keys to the valet. He looked different somehow—more animated, a spring in his step that I hadn't seen at home in months. He ran a hand through his hair, checking his reflection in the glass doors before entering.

I waited five excruciating minutes before crossing the street. The doorman recognized me from previous events with Ryan.

"Good evening, Ms. Parker. Mr. Collins just arrived."

I nodded, unable to form words, and stepped into the dimly lit interior. The club was quieter at this hour, with only a few groups scattered throughout the main lounge. Ryan wasn't among them.

I moved toward the outdoor area, my slippers making no sound on the polished floor. Through the glass doors, I could see the pool area illuminated by soft lighting, the water casting rippling reflections on the surrounding surfaces.

And there they were.

Under a wooden pergola draped with fairy lights—so similar to the ones I'd hung for our anniversary—sat Ryan and a young woman in a red sundress. Her hair fell in perfect waves around her shoulders, catching the golden light. She couldn't have been more than twenty-two.

I stood frozen behind the glass, watching as she threw her head back in laughter at something he said. His eyes never left her face, drinking in her reaction with an intensity I recognized—the same look he'd given me a decade ago when everything was new and exciting.

With practiced tenderness, he reached across the table and cupped her face in his hands. She leaned into his touch, her eyes closing as he kissed her. It wasn't a greeting or a goodbye kiss. It was the kiss of lovers comfortable with each other's bodies, familiar with each other's desires.

I stood just feet away, separated by glass, watching the man I'd loved for ten years betray me for what was clearly not the first time. And in that moment, as my world collapsed around me, I realized I felt nothing at all.