After My Husband Chose His Mistress Over Our Baby

I found Cameron in the living room, pouring champagne into crystal flutes. Ava's red dress was draped over the back of the sofa like a flag of conquest.

"She can't be pregnant," I said.

He didn't turn around. The champagne fizzed, golden and alive in a way he would never be again. "Jealousy doesn't suit you, June."

"It's not jealousy. It's biology." I stepped closer, my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands. "You can't father a child, Cameron. You haven't been able to for five years."

He set the bottle down with deliberate care. When he finally looked at me, his eyes were glassy, unfocused. The sage oil. Ava had dosed him again. "Is that what you tell yourself? That I'm broken? That I need you?"

"You do need me."

"I need her." His voice was flat, final. "She makes me feel like a man. You make me feel like a patient." He picked up both flutes, the crystal catching the light. "Pack your things. Move into the guest wing. Ava needs the master bedroom. The baby needs space."

The words landed like blows. I watched him walk away, carrying champagne to celebrate a lie, and felt something inside me crack.

---

The guest wing smelled like disuse and expensive furniture polish. I unpacked my ritual supplies in silence—the silver needles, the consecrated oils, the Soul Poppet wrapped in black silk. Through the walls, I heard Ava's laughter, bright and performative.

My phone buzzed. Jax. *I'm outside if you need me.*

I didn't answer. I couldn't. Not yet.

A week passed. I moved through the penthouse like a ghost, watching Cameron and Ava play house in rooms that used to be mine. She redecorated. Threw out my herbs. Replaced the dark, protective curtains with sheer white ones that let in too much light.

Cameron looked good. Vibrant. The sage oil and whatever else Ava was feeding him created a convincing illusion of health. But I felt the bond between us weakening, stretching thin like a thread about to snap.

Then, on a Tuesday afternoon, I heard the crash.

I found Cameron in the kitchen, staring at his hand. The crystal decanter lay shattered on the marble floor, and his index finger had a clean split across the pad. The skin had separated like old paper, revealing not blood but a dry, grayish tissue underneath.

He looked up at me, his face blank with shock. "It doesn't hurt."

"Cameron—"

"It doesn't hurt, and it's not bleeding." He turned his hand over, examining the wound with clinical detachment. "Why isn't it bleeding?"

I moved toward him, but Ava appeared in the doorway, her prosthetic belly preceding her like a shield.

"Baby, what happened?" She rushed to his side, her voice dripping concern. She glanced at the cut, and I saw the flash of calculation in her eyes before she smiled. "Oh, honey, it's just dry skin. The winter air, you know? So dehydrating."

She pulled a small diffuser from her pocket—she always had one now—and misted something into the air between them. The sickly-sweet smell of sage oil mixed with something sharper, more chemical. Cameron's pupils dilated.

"You're right," he said slowly. "Just dry skin."

"Let's get you a bandage." Ava led him away, shooting me a triumphant look over her shoulder.

I stood alone in the kitchen, staring at the shattered crystal and the complete absence of blood.

---

The full moon rose fat and silver over Manhattan. In the guest wing, I prepared for the Stitching Rite with shaking hands. The ritual was already overdue by three days. I could feel Cameron's body starting to fail, the magic fraying at the edges.

I gathered my supplies—the silver needles, the consecrated bowl, the vial of my own blood I'd drawn that morning. The Soul Poppet pulsed with a sickly, irregular rhythm.

The master bedroom door was closed. I knocked once, then entered.

Cameron was alone, sitting on the edge of the bed in the dark. He looked up at me, and for a moment, I saw confusion in his eyes. Vulnerability.

"It's time," I said quietly.

He nodded, started to unbutton his shirt.

I set up quickly, arranging the needles, pouring my blood into the consecrated bowl. The incense smoke curled toward the ceiling, carrying prayers in a language older than this city. I reached for the first needle—

The door slammed open.

Ava stumbled in, one hand clutching her fake belly, her face contorted in theatrical pain. "Cameron! The baby! Something's wrong!"

He was on his feet instantly. "What? What's happening?"

"I don't know, I just—" She lurched forward, her arm sweeping across my ritual setup. The bowl tipped, spilling sacred blood across the white carpet in a spreading stain.

"No!" I lunged for it, but it was too late.

The magic backlashed.

Power exploded outward from the spilled blood, raw and uncontrolled. It hit me like a physical force, throwing me backward into the wall. My head cracked against the plaster. Through the ringing in my ears, I heard Cameron cry out.

He was on his knees, both hands pressed to his chest. His face had gone gray, the illusion of life flickering like a dying bulb.

"What did you do?" he gasped, looking at me with wild, accusing eyes. "What did you do to me?"

Ava was at his side immediately, her pregnancy scare forgotten. "She's attacking you, baby. I told you she was dangerous."

I tried to stand, but my legs wouldn't hold me. Blood trickled down the back of my neck. "Cameron, please. Let me finish the ritual. You're dying."

"Get out," he said. His voice was raw, broken. "Get out before I call the police."

I looked at the spilled blood, the scattered needles, the Soul Poppet lying in the spreading crimson pool. The bond between us was unraveling, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

I gathered what I could and left, Ava's satisfied smile burning into my back.