After My Dead Wife's Revenge, I Found New Love

The champagne flute slipped from my fingers, crystal shattering against marble as the world exploded around me.

One moment I was laughing at Donovan's joke about our future children, my hand resting on the gentle curve of my belly where our baby grew. The next, the Seattle waterfront venue erupted in a deafening roar of fire and debris. The blast wave hit me like a freight train, lifting me off my feet and hurling me backward into the concrete pillar with bone-crushing force.

Pain shot through my spine, my ribs, my skull. Something warm and wet trickled down my face—blood, I realized dimly as darkness crept in from the edges of my vision. Through the ringing in my ears, I heard screams, sirens, the crackle of flames consuming what had been our perfect anniversary celebration just seconds before.

"Donovan," I whispered, my voice barely audible even to myself. Where was my husband? The explosion had torn us apart, scattered guests like leaves in a hurricane. Smoke burned my lungs as I tried to call his name again, but only a rasp emerged.

Then came the cramping. Sharp, vicious pain that doubled me over against the rubble. No. Not now. Not our baby.

"Please," I begged whatever force controlled fate, pressing both hands to my stomach as warmth spread between my legs. "Please, not my baby."

But I could feel it happening—the life we'd created together slipping away in the chaos and smoke. Three years of marriage, months of planning for this little one, and now...

The paramedics found me there, curled around my dying child, Donovan nowhere to be seen.

---

The hospital room swam in and out of focus through a haze of morphine and grief. Machines beeped steadily around me, monitoring vitals that felt foreign to my broken body. My ribs were wrapped tight, my left arm in a cast, and every breath sent lightning through my chest.

But the physical pain was nothing compared to the hollow ache where my baby used to be.

"Mrs. Wheeler?" A nurse appeared beside my bed, her voice gentle but clinical. "The doctor will be in shortly to discuss... the procedure."

The procedure. Such a sterile way to describe the removal of my child's remains. I closed my eyes, letting tears slip silently down my cheeks. Donovan should be here. Where was my husband when I needed him most?

"Any word on my husband?" I managed to ask, though speaking felt like swallowing glass.

The nurse's expression grew somber. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Wheeler. There's been no sign of Mr. Wheeler since the explosion. The search and rescue teams are still looking, but..."

But they wouldn't find him. Not alive. The thought hit me like another blast wave, stealing what little breath I had left. First my baby, now Donovan. How much loss could one person bear?

Sleep claimed me again, dragging me down into merciful darkness where the pain couldn't follow.

---

It was the voices that woke me.

Low, urgent whispers drifting through the thin wall between my room and the adjacent one. I lay perfectly still, my body heavy with sedatives, but my mind suddenly sharp with an inexplicable sense of danger.

"...insurance payout should be substantial," a familiar voice was saying. Male. Confident.

My heart stopped. That voice—I knew that voice.

"Are you certain she doesn't suspect anything?" A woman this time, her tone crisp and calculating.

"Reina? God, no. She's too trusting, too naive. Always has been. Perfect little wife who never questions anything." The man laughed softly, and ice flooded my veins. "The explosion was perfect. Everyone will assume I died in the blast, and once she's gone too..."

Donovan. My husband was alive, and he was talking about my death like it was already decided.

"The medical equipment tampering needs to look accidental," the woman continued. "A malfunction in her oxygen supply, perhaps. With her injuries, no one will question it."

"Brilliant, Arielle. This is why I love you."

Arielle. The name hit me like a physical blow. Arielle Nichols—the elegant brunette from Donovan's business circles, always touching his arm at parties, always finding excuses to lean close and whisper in his ear. I'd dismissed my suspicions as pregnancy hormones, trusted my husband's explanations.

Fool. Such a naive, trusting fool.

"And the organ donation?" Arielle's voice carried a note of anticipation that made my stomach turn.

"Already arranged. The baby's organs will be harvested within the hour. Your condition requires immediate transplantation, and what better donor than our own child?"

Our child. He called it our child while planning to give its organs to his mistress.

The room spun around me, but not from the drugs this time. From the crushing weight of betrayal so complete it stole my ability to breathe. Donovan hadn't just planned to kill me for insurance money—he'd orchestrated our baby's death too, turning even that tragedy into a gift for his lover.

I bit down hard on my tongue to keep from screaming, tasting blood as their footsteps moved away down the corridor. Think, Reina. Think. He believed I was unconscious, helpless, already as good as dead. That was my only advantage.

My fingers fumbled for the call button, pressing it with desperate urgency. When the nurse appeared, I forced my voice to remain weak, confused.

"Please," I whispered. "I need to make a phone call. There's someone... someone who needs to know about the accident."

Nicholas Watkins. Donovan's business rival, the billionaire who'd always watched my husband with calculating eyes at social events. If anyone had the power and resources to help me disappear before Donovan could finish what he'd started, it would be him.

I just had to survive long enough to make that call.