I Dropped My Pregnancy Test, He Cradled His Mistress

Time was running out. I quickened my pace, hastily packing the rest of my things.

The door burst open just as I was finishing up the last of my luggage in the master bedroom.

Gifford entered, supporting Dakota by the arm. Her belly was faintly rounded, and her face carried a deliberately delicate expression. One hand rested gently on her belly, as though she were the most fragile thing in the world.

“The master bedroom is for Dakota,” Gifford said flatly. “You’ll move to the guest room.”

His tone left no room for discussion, like a command from someone who believed Dakota was the true lady of this house.

I froze for a moment, then let out a cold laugh. “And why should I? This is our marital home. The master bedroom belongs to you and me.”

“It’s different now,” he said stiffly, avoiding my gaze. “Dakota is pregnant. She needs rest. The master bedroom is larger, and it gets better sunlight.”

I looked straight into his eyes, every word sharp as a blade. “Whose child is she carrying, Gifford? Do you dare say it’s yours?”

“Don’t forget who caused the death of our child,” I continued between my clenched teeth. “Don’t tell me you let my enemy get pregnant with your child.”

His expression darkened instantly. “Goddamn it, what nonsense are you spouting, Austria?” he shouted. “Nothing is going on between me and Dakota. Don’t use your filthy suspicions to judge her!”

“And don’t forget,” he continued harshly, “our child’s death wasn’t her fault. If you had taken better care of him, he wouldn’t have gotten sick and died from a fucking fever!”

At that, Dakota shrank slightly into his arms, her eyes reddening as tears gathered at the corners. Her voice trembled, choked with practiced gentleness.

“Don’t be so upset… If she doesn’t like it, I can sleep in the guest room. It’s fine, really.”

But even as she spoke, her hand clung tighter to his arm, her eyes filled with pitiful grievance.

“Look what you’ve done—you’ve frightened her!” Gifford snapped, stepping protectively in front of her. “I’m warning you, Austria. Behave yourself, or don’t blame me for the consequences.”

I looked at the two of them—this nauseating scene, and a wave of disgust swept through me.

This man, for the sake of a woman who had once caused the death of his own child, was not only driving me out of my own bedroom but also denying that shameful truth of what had happened.

“Fine, I’ll do that,” I said finally, forcing down the anger rising in my throat. “But on one condition.”

I pulled a document from my suitcase and handed it to him. “Sign this contract, and I’ll move out.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Gifford scrawled his signature across the paper.

“There. It’s signed,” he said coldly with a mocking smile. “Now, get out of the master bedroom.”

I took the document back and smiled faintly, raising my hand to show Dakota the diamond wedding ring on my finger.

“Dakota, remember this—until Gifford and I are legally divorced, we are still husband and wife.”

“And you,” I added, my tone sharp, “the moment you cross the line, you’ll be nothing but the third party in my marriage.”

With that, I turned and walked away.

At that moment, the last shred of attachment in my heart disintegrated completely.

If Gifford had cared for me at all, he would have realized that the document he’d just signed was not a contract… but a divorce agreement.

That night, I sent a brief message to Devon.

[Plans have changed. You can come pick me up tomorrow.]

He replied almost instantly with a simple [All right.]

After turning off my phone, I smiled faintly and rested my hand on my still-flat belly.

“Baby,” I whispered, “forgive me. I won’t let your father know about you. But to make it up to you, I promise, I’ll give you a home—a happy one.”