I Miscarried In Hospital, He Kissed His Mistress On Live TV

"Sign here, and you are free to go." The nurse tapped the bottom of the discharge paperwork.

I grabbed the blue pen. My hand trembled, scratching a messy signature across the line.

Mila stood beside my wheelchair, holding a plastic bag containing my ruined clothes. "I pulled the car around to the east exit. Less crowded."

"Thank you," I muttered.

The ride down the elevator was silent. The wheelchair tires squeaked against the linoleum.

Once inside Mila's sedan, the heavy hospital doors disappeared behind us. I stared blankly at the dashboard, watching the rain hit the windshield.

"I'll swing by your apartment first," Mila said, putting the car in drive. "You need clean clothes, your toothbrush, maybe your favorite blanket."

"No." My voice cracked.

Mila hit the brakes. The car jerked to a stop at a red light. "El, you can't wear hospital scrubs forever. I just need to grab a few things."

"I am not going back there."

"Why not? Jude doesn't even have a key to that building."

I squeezed my eyes shut. The memory struck me, violent and sudden.

It hadn't just been a dizzy spell on the street.

"I didn't trip, Mila."

She turned in the driver's seat. "What do you mean?"

"The stairwell at my building," I whispered, gripping the edge of my seatbelt. "The elevator was broken. I took the stairs."

"And?"

"Someone was behind me." The phantom sensation of hands slamming into my shoulder blades made my stomach violently churn. "They shoved me. Hard."

Mila's jaw dropped. "Are you telling me someone pushed you down a flight of concrete stairs?"

"Yes."

"Did you see their face?"

I shook my head. "Just hands. A flash of bright red nail polish. Then I was falling."

The light turned green. Mila didn't move. Cars behind us blared their horns.

"I'll kill them," Mila snarled. "We are going to the police."

"With what proof?" I shot back. "There are no cameras in that stairwell. I don't know who it was. I have no face. No name."

"So we just do nothing?"

"Just drive me to your place. Please."

Mila’s guest bedroom smelled like lavender and dust.

She dropped a cardboard box onto the mattress. "I went to your place while you were in surgery. I packed everything that looked important."

"Thank you."

"I'll make tea," Mila said, hovering near the doorway. "Do you want anything to eat? I can order soup."

"I'm not hungry."

"You haven't eaten in twenty-four hours, El. You need your strength."

"Just the tea."

Mila sighed and backed out of the room, leaving the door cracked.

I pulled the flaps of the box open.

A framed polaroid sat right on top. Jude and me, smiling on a secluded beach in Mexico. His arms wrapped tight around my waist.

I picked up the frame. The glass felt cold against my palms.

"Liar," I said to the empty room.

I slammed the frame against the edge of the nightstand. The glass shattered, raining tiny shards onto the carpet.

I pulled the photo out and ripped it down the middle. Then I tore it again. And again. I dropped the glossy confetti into the metal trash bin beside the desk.

Next was the custom silver necklace he bought me for our one-year anniversary. It had a tiny 'J' pendant.

I yanked the chain until the metal links snapped apart, tossing it into the garbage.

Ticket stubs from his college games. Gone.

The oversized hoodie he left at my place. I grabbed a pair of fabric scissors from Mila's desk and cut it into unwearable shreds.

Every cut fueled the fire in my chest. I didn't cry. My tear ducts were completely dry.

Two hours later, Mila walked in with a mug of chamomile tea. She stopped, scanning the pile of destroyed memories.

"Feel better?" she asked, setting the mug on the nightstand.

"A little."

She glanced at my laptop screen. It was open on the bed.

"Elowen, close that." Mila reached for the computer.

I swatted her hand away. "I need to see it."

The internet was a relentless machine. Every major sports network, every gossip blog, every social media feed plastered their faces front and center.

*Jude Lawson and Serena Fox: Football's Golden Couple.*

*The Kiss That Broke the Internet.*

*Why Serena Fox is the Perfect Match for MVP Lawson.*

I scrolled through an article on a popular celebrity site.

"They are calling her his lucky charm," I read aloud, my tone flat. "They say she was his motivation to win the championship."

"It's all PR garbage," Mila said, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Don't torture yourself."

"He fed me scraps in the dark for two years," I said, my eyes fixed on a high-definition photo of them holding the trophy. "And he gives her the entire world in one night."

"He is a coward."

I leaned closer to the screen. Something caught my eye.

"Mila, look at this."

"I don't want to look at his stupid face."

"Not him. Look at her."

I tapped the trackpad, zooming in on the photo. The image magnified, centering on Serena's hand resting against Jude's chest.

Her fingers were long and slender.

Her nails were painted a glossy, vibrant red.

The exact shade that flashed in my vision right before the hands shoved me down the concrete stairwell.

"It was her," I breathed, the realization freezing the blood in my veins.

Mila leaned over my shoulder, squinting at the screen. "You think Serena Fox pushed you?"

"She sent me a photo from his hotel bed while I was in the hospital. She knew about me. She knew who I was."

"That's a massive accusation, El. Millions of women wear red nail polish."

"It's not just red. It's a specific metallic crimson. I stared right at it when those hands shoved me." I pointed at the screen. "It was her."

Mila stood up, pacing the narrow bedroom. "If she did this, she's dangerous. You need to stay hidden here. We lock the doors. We don't post anything."

"No."

I reached into the pocket of my sweatpants and pulled out the matte black business card.

*Julian Croft. Crisis Management.*

"What are you doing?" Mila asked, her voice rising in panic.

"I'm not hiding." I grabbed my new prepaid phone from the mattress. "She took my child. She took my life. Now I am going to take hers."

I dialed the number on the card.

It rang twice.

"Croft," a deep voice answered.

"It's Elowen."

"I figured you would call," Julian said, the faint sound of typing echoing in the background. "Ready to burn his life to the ground?"

"Yes." I stared at the photo of Serena's red nails. "But I need you to do something else for me first."

"Name it."

"I need you to prove Serena Fox tried to murder me."

A heavy silence stretched across the line.

"I'll send a car," Julian finally said. "Be outside in ten minutes. And Elowen?"

"What?"

"Don't trust anyone. Not even the people sitting right next to you."

The line clicked dead.

I lowered the phone, my eyes shifting slowly toward Mila.