After My Miscarriage, My Husband Got Another Woman Pregnant

[Ian Shaw]: “Are you okay, Paula? Wait, I’ll come over to help you.”

My chest tightened, pain spreading with every beat of my heart.

My child was gone, but my husband was miles away, busy tending to another woman.

What a cruel irony.

Tears slipped down my face as I unlocked my phone. Without hesitation, I tapped on Ian’s avatar in Instagram and sent a message: “When you return, we’re getting a divorce.”

For a long time, there was no reply.

Of course. He was likely on his way to Paula’s place, just as he had once hurried to find me.

An hour later, his avatar finally lit up.

“?”

“Do you still think you’re some untouchable princess? Always threatening to break up, huh?”

“And have you even looked at yourself? Eight months pregnant—who would want you if you left me?”

Anger coursed through me, making my entire body tremble. I stared at the screen, my tear-streaked, pale reflection staring back into the darkened glass.

With a shaky hand, I wiped my face and replied, my voice caught in my throat as if choking on every word: “I’d rather be unwanted than stay with someone as heartless as you. Ian, you’re no better than a beast!”

He didn’t respond, choosing silence as he always did.

I was used to his cold indifference, yet disappointment lingered.

Before we were married, whenever I was upset, he’d immediately admit fault and shower me with affection to make up for it.

But those days were gone.

When I was discharged from the hospital, the nurse gave me a knowing smile.

“Your husband must be something. No matter how busy he is, he should have come to pick you up.”

I forced a faint smile. “He’s preoccupied with his first love. He couldn’t make it.”

The nurse’s smile faltered, and she said nothing more.

Outside, the streets buzzed with traffic. Cars blurred past as I stood there, numb and aimless.

Go home? It was too far.

The doctor had strictly warned me to stay in bed and avoid prolonged sitting.

Given my condition, taking a long bus ride wasn’t an option.

I decided to stay nearby. A taxi took me to a modest hotel, where I checked in and began unpacking.

Later, I prepared to visit the mall next door to buy some essentials and fresh clothes.

As I changed my shoes, my reflection in the mirror caught me off guard. My stomach, still swollen, looked as if nothing had changed—as if my baby was still there.

I froze, the image stabbing me with fresh grief.

Blinking back tears, I pulled on my jacket, stole myself, and stepped outside.

At the mall, I picked up toiletries and other necessities. Just as I passed a lingerie store, a familiar voice stopped me in my tracks.

“Ian, what do you think of this one? Does it look good on me?”

I turned instinctively toward the voice.

Paula stood in front of a mirror, flaunting a tight outfit, her chest puffed out. Ian sat on the store’s plush sofa, his gaze fixed on her with unhidden admiration.

He smiled and said, “Paula, you’d look good in anything.”

The sales clerk chimed in with a professional smile, “Sir, you have excellent taste. The bra your wife is trying on is one of our bestsellers.”

Paula smiled coyly but didn’t correct her.

I couldn’t hold back any longer. I stepped into the store, my voice was cold and sharp.

“This won’t do. You should take off the tights too, just to be sure.”

Ian spun around, shock written all over his face. Paula’s expression froze, her embarrassment evident.

“Sherrie,” Ian stammered, standing up, his tone laced with surprise. “What… why are you here?”

I didn’t answer, my gaze fixed on him, my anger simmering.

Paula, playing the victim, spoke softly, “Sherrie, don’t misunderstand. Ian just drove me here to pick up some New Year’s items. I saw this store on the way and decided to stop in for a quick look.”

I let out a cold laugh and turned to Ian.

“You’re the same man who refused to buy sanitary napkins for your pregnant wife. And now you’re in a lingerie store? What’s the occasion? Aren’t you ashamed?”

Ian faltered, unable to respond.

Paula’s eyes reddened as she clung to her act. “Don’t argue. It’s all my fault. Ian, I’ve caused you trouble.”

What a picture-perfect white lotus she was.