Divorced in the Delivery Room,My Husband’s Mistress Gave Him Disease

The call came while I was in labor.

Bartholomew Delgado's voice was calm, almost bored. "Sophie Simmons, I've been having an affair."

"Let's get divorced before the baby's born."

"Maddie's young. She can't handle the gossip that comes with being the other woman."

"I need to make her my wife."

"And don't think you can use the child to trap me."

"You of all people should understand—a child born unloved only suffers."

I looked at the photo he'd sent. Nodded like a good girl.

No hysterics this time. No screaming, no begging.

I didn't tell him that his precious little darling was an escort with HIV.

Or that after all the time he'd spent in her bed, he probably wouldn't survive the thirty-day cooling-off period before our divorce was finalized.

——

Bartholomew came to deliver the divorce papers in person.

I'd just given birth. The delivery had nearly killed me—I was barely conscious, clinging to life by a thread.

He looked at my ashen face and frowned.

Not with concern. Not with tenderness.

Just irritation that I'd made a decision without his permission.

"I told you this child wasn't supposed to be born."

"Maddie doesn't like competition for my attention."

I gazed down at the sleeping infant in my arms and managed a pale smile.

"Sorry. Your call came too late."

"By the time you were proposing to Madeline Pruitt, I was already on the operating table."

The baby wasn't due today. Not according to schedule.

But Madeline had sent me a dead rat in a box. The shock sent me into early labor.

I'd called Bartholomew countless times from the hospital. Not once did he pick up.

Then, as they wheeled me into the operating room, fireworks exploded outside the window.

I squinted through the glass.

Bartholomew had spent millions on a proposal spectacular for his mistress.

Rose petals carpeting the ground. Fireworks painting the sky.

And there, spelled out against the darkness in a swarm of drones:

Madeline Pruitt, I love you.

I gave birth to our child to the sound of those celebrations.

The hospital issued critical condition notices. Multiple times. I called until my phone died. No one answered.

In the end, I signed the surgical consent form myself. Hands shaking. Teeth clenched.

The timing was almost funny—he showed up the moment the baby was born.

Not because he was worried.

Because he wanted me to sign the papers. Wanted me to take the child and disappear so his mistress could take my place.

I swallowed a sigh.

Forced a smile.

Reached for the divorce agreement.

When I sat up, I pulled at the incision on my abdomen. Fresh blood bloomed through the gauze.

Bartholomew's frown deepened—not at the blood, but at the inconvenience.

"Sophie, don't bother playing the victim with me."

"I'm not heartless. I'll make sure you're compensated."

"Sign quietly, and I'll pay child support in full upfront. Enough for you both to live comfortably."

My pen hovered over the page.

I studied his cold, indifferent face and felt... nothing.

Maybe I'd simply run out of tears.

I remembered the first time I'd discovered his affair. I'd wept. Begged. Climbed onto the windowsill with one foot dangling over the edge.

He'd watched me—watched his wife threatening to jump—and shrugged.

"Sophie, stop crying. I haven't felt anything for you in a long time."

"Once, your tears might have moved me."

"Now? They just make me sick."

That night, Madeline's voice had whined through his phone, demanding he come back. He'd left without a backward glance.