His Mistress Had His Baby Too

I arrived at Le Bernardin an hour early, my heart fluttering with anticipation. Tonight was Alexander's thirty-fifth birthday, and after three years of marriage, I finally had the perfect gift—one that couldn't be bought with his Wall Street money or connections.

The maître d' recognized me immediately. "Mrs. Hayes, your husband's private room is ready. Would you like to wait there?"

"Yes, please. I'd like to surprise him when he arrives."

As I followed him through the restaurant, I clutched my small gift box containing the sonogram photos I'd received just yesterday. Three months pregnant. Our baby. The heir to the Hayes fortune that his mother Eleanor had been not-so-subtly hinting about since our wedding day.

The private dining room was immaculate—crystal glasses catching the light from the chandelier, white roses arranged in perfect symmetry. Alexander appreciated precision in all things. I adjusted a slightly off-center fork, a habit I'd developed over years of trying to create the perfect environment for him.

"Would you like something while you wait, Mrs. Hayes?"

"Just water, thank you." I rested my hand instinctively on my still-flat stomach.

After the server left, I took out my compact mirror, checking my appearance one more time. I'd spent hours preparing—my dark hair swept into the elegant updo Alexander preferred, wearing the midnight blue dress he'd once commented favorably on. Everything had to be perfect tonight. This news would change everything between us. It had to.

I heard male voices approaching—loud, boisterous laughter that could only belong to Alexander and his fraternity brothers. They were early too. Not wanting to ruin my surprise, I slipped into the adjoining powder room, planning to emerge once they were all settled.

"Another round before dinner!" That was Jason Miller's voice, Alexander's oldest friend and best man at our wedding.

"To the birthday boy!" Another voice cheered, followed by the clinking of glasses.

"Ten years, man. You actually did it," Jason said, his voice slightly slurred. "The longest-running bet in Sigma history."

I froze, my hand on the doorknob.

"Worth every penny," Alexander replied, his familiar baritone carrying that smug tone he used when closing deals. "The look on your faces when I actually married her..."

More laughter erupted. My breath caught in my throat.

"But three years of marriage, Alex? That's dedication to a bet," someone else chimed in.

"The ultimate long-term conquest, gentlemen." Alexander's voice dropped lower, conspiratorial. "Complete devotion. She actually thinks I'm going to grow old with her."

The room spun around me. I gripped the marble counter to steady myself.

"And she never suspected?" Jason asked.

"Please." Alexander's laugh was cold, cutting through me like a blade. "Mia sees what she wants to see. Pathetic, really. I could bring other women home and she'd probably apologize for not being enough."

More laughter. Blood rushed in my ears.

"But you never loved her? Not even a little?" This voice sounded slightly uncomfortable.

"Love?" Alexander scoffed. "She was a game. The perfect, adoring wife who'd do anything for me. You should see how she looks at me—like I hung the moon. It's almost too easy."

I pressed my hand against my mouth to stifle a sob. Ten years. Ten years of my life—college, my twenties, my career ambitions—all sacrificed for a man who had been playing me from the beginning.

Somehow, I managed to slip out unnoticed, past the main dining room and into the cold Manhattan night. The taxi ride home passed in a blur of tears and nausea that had nothing to do with my pregnancy.

Our penthouse—the home I'd spent three years perfecting—felt like a museum of lies. Every photo, every piece of furniture we'd selected together, every memory was tainted. I moved through the space like a ghost, touching surfaces that suddenly felt foreign.

In the bedroom, Alexander's phone buzzed on the nightstand. He never locked it—not out of trust, I now realized, but out of arrogance. The screen lit up with a message:

*Rachel: Can't wait to see you later tonight. Your wife still clueless about us?*

My hands trembling, I picked up the phone and scrolled through their conversation history. Explicit messages. Plans made while I was visiting my parents. Promises of a future together.

On the dresser sat two champagne flutes—one still bearing a perfect imprint of red lipstick. Not my shade.

I stared at my reflection in the bedroom mirror, the sonogram photos still clutched in my hand, and for the first time in a decade, I saw myself clearly—a woman who had built her entire existence around a cruel lie.

The phone in my hand buzzed again with another message from Rachel, and my heart pounded with a dread that was quickly transforming into something else entirely.