He Poisoned Me for His Secret Son,Now I Want Out

The Barnes family had a sole male heir lineage spanning three generations. His parents had said more than once that they hoped for grandchildren—a boy and a girl at least, ideally more, to fill the house with laughter.

I loved children too. In all my years as a kindergarten teacher, I'd always dreamed of having my own.

Every time I showed Herman a photo of some adorable kid, he'd smile and say, We'll have our own someday. Even cuter than that one.

I'd been naive enough to believe him. It never crossed my mind that he'd been deliberately sterilizing me just to make room for his illegitimate son.

He knew full well that his mother valued lineage and fertility above all else.

If she ever found out I couldn't have children, she'd tear me apart.

He swore up and down that he had no feelings for Janet, yet everything he did was for her. For their child.

He told me I was the only one he loved, then built me a marriage lined with thorns.

The pain in my chest was so sharp I thought it might crack me open. I fled the school like a woman possessed, desperate to escape the suffocating weight of it all.

A message from Herman glowed on my phone screen: Why aren't you in the classroom?

My hands trembled. But the warmth I used to feel when he checked on me—that sweetness—was gone.

I turned off my phone, hailed a cab without hesitation, and went straight to the hospital.

The doctor told me that the herbal tonic I'd been taking to regulate my cycle contained a cold-natured ingredient that, with prolonged use, caused infertility.

That tonic. The one Herman brewed for me every month like clockwork, spooning it into my mouth himself.

No wonder my cramps never got better.

What I'd mistaken for tenderness was arsenic wrapped in sugar.

I clutched the lab report so tightly my knuckles went white. I could barely breathe.

I didn't remember how I got home.

I burrowed under the covers, my hands moving on their own, scrolling, searching for every trace of him and Janet.

On Janet's social media, she'd documented her entire pregnancy.

For the first six months, she'd played the role of a single mother who'd run off with her baby bump.

Then, gradually, a man began appearing in her posts.

27 weeks + 3 days: Couldn't help myself. When my ex was confessing his feelings to another woman, I told him about the baby. He was furious, but he still gave me the gift he'd bought for his girlfriend's confession. She got the freebie instead.

30 weeks + 2 days: The doctor doing my checkup made an inappropriate joke about me. He stood up for me and hurt his hand—couldn't perform surgery for days. So handsome. So in love.

Due date! I told him I was having contractions and he came running through the rain. Stayed with me all night. Turns out the baby was just kicking hard.

When I saw the date on that last post, goosebumps crawled across every inch of my skin.

That was a day I would never forget as long as I lived.

We'd been watching the sunset from a mountaintop. He got a phone call from the hospital, and just like that, he abandoned me on the side of the road and rushed off.

That night, on my way home alone, I was nearly assaulted.

When Herman picked me up at the police station, saw me shaking and disheveled, he dropped to his knees and said he was sorry.

All those nights afterward, every time I jolted awake from a nightmare, I'd lie there wondering why he'd left me behind.

I told myself over and over: He's a doctor. He had something more important to deal with. He doesn't belong to me alone.

But now, seeing the perfect score he'd given someone else, I finally understood that what he'd given me didn't even earn a passing grade.

He could belong to his patients. He could belong to his ex. The only person he could never belong to was me.

Click.

The bedroom door swung open.

He saw my red, swollen eyes and reached out, his fingers gentle against my face.

"Did someone give you a hard time?"

I shifted slightly, pulling away from his touch.

My voice cracked despite every effort to hold it steady.

But my eyes were clear as glass when I looked at him.

"My supervisor said I was wasting my looks. Said I can't even bring in enrollment numbers or investment."

He paused for a fraction of a second, then pulled me into his arms.

His tone was careless. Barely even trying.