My Husband’s “Best Friend” Humiliated Me in the Delivery Room,Now They’re Both Going Down

The two on the cot beside me went dead silent the moment they heard my voice.

Brendan turned. When his eyes met my icy stare, a flicker of discomfort crossed his face—but he recovered fast.

"Naomi… you're awake?"

"Are you feeling okay? Do you want some water?"

His expression smoothed into perfect composure as he poured a glass and brought it to my lips.

I said nothing for a moment, then leaned forward and let the water wet my cracked lips.

"So. Are you going to explain? The video."

His hand froze.

I looked past him. On Charity's phone screen, still glowing bright, was footage of me—writhing, screaming, giving birth.

She caught my gaze. Her smile stretched wider.

"Hey, sis," she chirped.

Then her finger accidentally grazed the volume button.

My own voice—raw, guttural, shattered with pain—exploded through the hospital room.

My whole body locked up.

In the bassinet beside me, my newborn startled awake. Her tiny mouth opened, and a thin, reedy cry spilled out.

That sound. It was like a thousand needles driving straight into my chest.

I forced myself upright, reaching for her with trembling hands to soothe her, then whipped my head back toward them.

"Turn it off. Delete it. Now."

Charity pouted and glanced at Brendan.

"It was an accident."

"See, I told you she'd throw a fit."

Brendan frowned. He set the glass down, sat on the edge of my bed, and his voice came out clipped with irritation.

"Babies cry. It's healthy. Is this really necessary?"

My hand stilled on my daughter's back.

Something cold clicked into place in my mind.

"When she came out of the delivery room," I said, my voice flat, empty of anything, "who held her first?"

Brendan blinked.

He hadn't expected me to go there. I watched the memory surface—our promise, the one he'd made—and guilt flickered across his face before he could hide it.

Three years dating. Five years married.

I knew that look.

I'd thought he was just a disappointing husband. Now I realized he'd failed as a father too.

Maybe the contempt in my eyes was too obvious. He knew he was in the wrong, but he still fumbled for an excuse.

"I was… busy when she first came out. I held her later."

"Busy?"

I stared at him. Then at Charity, poised beside him like a guard dog ready to leap to his defense.

My voice dropped, edged with something cold and mocking.

"Busy showing her footage of me at my most vulnerable. Too busy to hold your own daughter."

"Brendan. Who gave you permission to send her that video?"

The room went so quiet I could hear the fluorescent lights humming.

Brendan pressed his lips together, visibly calculating his next words.

But Charity—watching him flounder—let out an impatient little huff.

"I asked him to film it for me, sis."

She met my gaze and lifted her chin, defiant.

"I was bored. Curious what it looks like when a woman gives birth." She shrugged. "So he recorded it. We're practically family. You're not really going to throw a tantrum over something this small, are you?"

I turned to Brendan.

He didn't contradict a single word.

The last trace of warmth drained from my face.

"Curious…"

I rolled the word around slowly, tasting its shape.

"Then why don't you find someone to knock you up and try it yourself?"

My voice was quiet. Almost conversational.

But the smug look on Charity's face cracked like dry earth.

"That's enough, Naomi. You've gone too far."

Brendan's voice cut in, low and hard. His eyes held nothing but disapproval—

For me.