His Mistress Had HIV,So He Locked His Ex-Wife in a Morgue

The day I went into labor, Rhys Abbott was cheating on me.

Throughout my entire postpartum confinement, he jetted around the globe with that woman, showering her with every luxury money could buy.

When he finally returned, he brought me a divorce agreement.

"Sophie doesn't like being called a homewrecker all the time, so I need to end this marriage."

"Just sign it. I waited until your recovery period was over before giving this to you—consider that my courtesy."

"I don't want the child anyway. Keep her as a memento. Sophie will give me children later."

I didn't say a word. I picked up the pen and signed.

I couldn't afford to delay even a second longer—not when the man I truly loved was waiting for me.

Three months later, I was pulled from my own wedding by an emergency call from the hospital.

A female patient had ruptured her corpus luteum during particularly vigorous intercourse. Worse, because she'd been sleeping with multiple partners simultaneously, she'd developed severe complications requiring immediate surgery.

I pushed open the door to the operating room—and what a coincidence.

Lying on that surgical table was none other than my ex-husband's fiancée.

——

I glanced down at the patient chart to confirm the name.

Sophie Pruitt.

Before my divorce from Rhys, I'd heard that name countless times from his lips. He called her "Sophie," always with such tender devotion it dripped from every syllable.

I'd imagined he must have found some perfect, transcendent love.

This was what that looked like.

I thought back to the day I gave birth. The labor had turned dangerous—hemorrhaging, doctors shouting for family members to be contacted.

But Rhys's phone went straight to voicemail. Every single time.

Meanwhile, photos of him and Sophie wrapped around each other outside luxury hotels flooded every tabloid.

With the Abbott family's resources, he could have buried those photos in an instant if he'd wanted to.

The fact that he didn't made the message clear: he was done hiding her.

He was ready to make her his wife.

When I finally regained consciousness after nearly dying, Rhys appeared at last.

Impatience flickered across his face. "Leonora Simmons, why do you insist on making yourself so pathetic?"

"You used to be a top student. You're a doctor, for God's sake. Did you really have to go through with having this baby?"

"I never wanted it. If you thought a child would secure your position, that's honestly laughable."

"I've been busy lately. I don't have time for your melodrama—"

His phone rang before he could finish.

He answered without hesitation, not bothering to step away. "Sophie..."

A voice cut through from the other end. "Rhys, is my birthday surprise ready yet?"

"You said you were just checking on that frumpy wife at the hospital. It's been half an hour—why aren't you back?"

"I heard she was bleeding everywhere? Gross. Hurry back before you get your shoes dirty."

Rhys chuckled softly. "My Sophie, always looking out for me. I'm on my way."

"Your gift is ready. I promise you'll be so surprised you won't be able to get out of bed..."

He walked out while still talking, never glancing back at me.

It didn't occur to him to look at our baby either.

But honestly? I wasn't heartbroken.

Once I confirmed my daughter was safe and healthy, I felt only relief.

Relief that I could finally hold the Abbott family patriarch to his promise.

I called Paul Abbott myself. "Grandpa Paul, the baby is healthy. May I leave now?"

Years ago, when the Abbott empire had teetered on the edge of bankruptcy, the old man had sought me out personally.

My birth chart, he claimed, was perfectly aligned to bring fortune to the Abbott bloodline. If I bore them an heir, their prosperity would be guaranteed for generations.

I was already a medical intern at the time. To anyone with a scientific education, it was superstitious nonsense.

But the wealthy believe what they want to believe.