My Husband Bought His Mistress a Lamborghini While I Lost Our Baby

Dinner dragged on. Course after course. Kehlani laughed at Nathan's jokes. Touched his wrist. Leaned in close when he spoke. He never looked my way.

I sat at the far end of the table and counted my breaths. In. Out. In. Out. Kept my face neutral. Kept my hands folded in my lap.

The executives talked about quarterly projections. Someone made a toast. Glasses clinked. Kehlani blushed and thanked everyone in that soft, breathy voice she used when men were watching.

I felt the dull ache low in my abdomen. It had been there all evening. Just a twinge. Probably nothing. Probably stress.

I picked up my water glass and took another sip.

Dessert arrived. Some elaborate chocolate thing with gold leaf. Kehlani took a delicate bite and closed her eyes like it was the best thing she'd ever tasted. Nathan watched her. Everyone watched her.

No one watched me.

I set down my fork. The ache was sharper now. I shifted in my seat.

Kehlani stood. "Excuse me," she said sweetly. "Just need to freshen up."

She walked around the table. Her heels clicked on the marble floor. She passed behind my chair.

Then she stumbled.

A sharp gasp. Her hand shot out toward the table. Her body tilted sideways, right next to me, like she was about to fall.

"Oh—!"

Nathan moved. Fast. Faster than I'd seen him move in years. He lunged across the table, knocking over a wine glass. Red liquid spread across the white tablecloth.

His hand caught Kehlani's arm. And his other hand—his other hand shoved me.

Hard.

I didn't have time to brace. Didn't have time to think. My chair tipped. My hip hit the edge of the table. Sharp. Brutal. Marble against bone.

Then I was on the floor.

The impact knocked the air out of my lungs. I lay there on the cold marble, staring up at the crystal chandelier. Everything went very quiet.

Then the pain hit.

Low. Deep. Tearing through my abdomen like something had ripped open inside me.

I pressed my hand to my stomach. Felt warmth. Wetness. I lifted my hand and saw red.

Blood.

Someone screamed. Not me. Someone else.

I turned my head. Nathan was still holding Kehlani's arm. Still standing. Still frozen. He stared down at me.

Three seconds. That's how long he stood there. I counted.

One. Two. Three.

Then he let go of Kehlani and dropped to his knees beside me.

"Ariel—" His voice cracked. "Ariel, I—"

"Call an ambulance," someone shouted.

The pain got worse. I curled onto my side. More blood. Too much blood. It pooled beneath my dress, dark and spreading.

Nathan's hands hovered over me. Shaking. "I didn't mean—I was just—"

I looked at him. Really looked at him. His face was white. His eyes were wide. Terrified.

Good.

"Don't touch me," I whispered.

He pulled back like I'd burned him.

Footsteps. Voices. Someone pressed a napkin against my stomach. It soaked through immediately.

Kehlani stood a few feet away, one hand over her mouth. She wasn't crying. Just staring. I met her eyes.

She looked away first.

The ambulance came. Paramedics. A stretcher. Bright lights. Nathan tried to climb in with me.

"Family only," the paramedic said.

"I'm her husband."

"Then you can follow in your car, sir."

The doors closed. The siren started. I lay flat on my back, staring at the metal ceiling, one hand still pressed to my stomach even though the paramedic had already bandaged it.

I knew. I already knew.

Mount Sinai Emergency. Fluorescent lights. Sterile smell. Doctors in blue scrubs. They moved fast. Asked questions. I answered in a flat voice.

"How far along?"

"Eight weeks."

"Any cramping before tonight?"

"No."

"Pain level?"

"Nine."

They wheeled me into a room. Did an ultrasound. The screen was turned away from me. I watched the doctor's face instead.

I saw the moment she found nothing.

Her expression shifted. Careful. Practiced. Sympathetic.

"I'm so sorry," she said quietly.

I closed my eyes.

"We'll need to do a procedure to—"

"I know."

She squeezed my hand. I didn't squeeze back.

Afterward, they moved me to a recovery room. Clean white sheets. Thin blanket. A nurse came in and adjusted my IV.

"Your husband is in the waiting room," she said gently. "Would you like me to send him in?"

I stared at the ceiling. The tiles had small holes in them. Hundreds of small holes. I counted them.

"Not yet," I said.

The nurse hesitated. "Are you sure? He's been asking—"

"Not yet."

She nodded and left.

I lay there alone. One hand pressed flat against my abdomen. It felt empty now. Hollow.

Three years of needles. Hundreds of injections. Bruises that never fully healed. Waiting rooms and blood tests and hope I didn't know I still had.

Gone.

Because Nathan shoved me out of the way to catch her.

I turned my head and looked out the window. Manhattan glittered in the distance. Cold. Bright. Indifferent.

I reached for my phone on the side table. Opened my email. Found Eleanor Vance's last message.

I typed four words.

*File the papers tomorrow.*

Then I set the phone down, closed my eyes, and waited for morning.