His Mistress Framed Me for Killing Her Baby

Nicolas's office smelled like antiseptic and old coffee. I sat in the chair across from his desk while he read my chart. The blinds were half-closed. Outside, the hospital parking lot was full of cars that looked like they cost more than my childhood home.

He set the folder down. His jaw was tight. "Cleo, this is late-stage. You understand what that means?"

I nodded.

"The oncology team can start chemo next week. Dr. Patel is one of the best in the country. She's aggressive. She'll fight for you." He leaned forward. His hands were flat on the desk. "But you have to start immediately. Every day we wait—"

"I'm not doing chemo," I said.

He stopped. Stared at me. "What?"

"I can't."

"Cleo." His voice dropped. "If you don't treat this, you have maybe six months. Maybe less."

"I know."

He stood up. Walked to the window. His shoulders were stiff. When he turned back, his face looked like he'd aged ten years. "Is this about money? Because I can—"

"It's not about money."

"Then what? What could possibly be worth—" He stopped. His eyes went to the folder. To the notes clipped inside. "The pregnancy."

I didn't say anything.

"You're choosing the baby over treatment."

"Yes."

He sat down hard in his chair. Rubbed his face with both hands. "Cleo, listen to me. Chemo doesn't always terminate a pregnancy. There are protocols. We can try—"

"The baby is twelve weeks. You said it yourself. The drugs would cross the placenta. The risk is too high."

"The risk of dying is higher."

"I'm dying anyway, Nicolas." My voice came out flat. Calm. Like I was reading a grocery list. "The scans showed metastasis. You saw them. Even with chemo, it's a coin flip. Maybe I get another year. Maybe I don't. But if I start treatment now, I lose the baby for sure. And I can't do that."

He looked at me like I was a stranger. "Why? He threw you out. He called you a liar in front of cameras. He doesn't even believe it's his."

"It doesn't matter what he believes."

"It should."

I pressed my hand against my stomach. There was a small curve now. Barely visible under my sweater. "This is the only thing I have that's mine. Not his. Not anyone else's. Mine. I'm keeping it."

Nicolas closed his eyes. His voice came out rough. "You're asking me to watch you die."

"I'm asking you to help me stay alive long enough to deliver."

He didn't answer for a long time. Outside, an ambulance siren wailed past. The sound faded into traffic noise.

Finally, he opened his eyes. "Off the books," he said. "I'll manage your pain. Monitor your levels. Keep you stable as long as I can. But Cleo, if you start hemorrhaging, if the tumor obstructs—"

"I know the risks."

"Do you?" He leaned forward. His voice was hard now. Angry. "Do you know what it's going to feel like when your body starts shutting down? When you can't eat because your stomach is full of cancer? When the pain gets so bad you can't think?"

"Yes," I said. "I know."

He looked at me. Really looked. Then he nodded once. "Okay."

I stood. My legs felt weak. I steadied myself on the edge of his desk.

"Cleo." His voice stopped me at the door. "He doesn't deserve this. He doesn't deserve you protecting him."

"I'm not protecting him," I said. "I'm protecting the baby."

I left before he could say anything else.

---

Two weeks later, my phone rang while I was buying groceries. I didn't recognize the number. I almost didn't answer.

"Ms. Morgan?" A woman's voice. Professional. Clipped. "This is Andrea Holt. I'm calling on behalf of Mr. Alvarez's legal team. We'd like to schedule a meeting to discuss terms of a non-disclosure agreement."

I stood in the middle of the cereal aisle holding a box of generic cornflakes. "I don't want his money."

"Mr. Alvarez is prepared to offer a substantial settlement in exchange for your agreement to cease all contact and retract any public claims regarding—"

I hung up.

She called back three more times that week. I blocked the number.

The nausea got worse. I couldn't keep food down. Nicolas prescribed anti-nausea medication, but it only helped a little. I lost weight everywhere except my stomach. People on the subway stared.

I stopped going out unless I had to.

One night, I woke up to my phone vibrating. A text from a number I didn't know. I opened it.

It was a photo. Judah and Sloane at some charity gala. She wore a dress covered in gold sequins. He had his arm around her waist. They looked perfect. Below the photo, a message: *Stay away from what doesn't belong to you.*

I deleted it. Turned off my phone. Lay back down in the dark.

The baby kicked for the first time that night. A tiny flutter, like a bird trapped under my ribs.

I put my hand over the spot and cried until I couldn't breathe.