My Husband Asked His Mistress to Steal Our Baby

I woke to gray light filtering through sheer curtains. My mouth tasted like metal and cotton. The room swam into focus—cream walls, expensive furniture, bars hidden behind silk.

My tote bag sat on a chair across the room. They'd dumped its contents on the dresser. Wallet. Keys. Lipstick. My smartphone was gone.

I pushed myself upright. My head throbbed. Whatever Dr. Chen had given me still clung to my thoughts like cobwebs. I pressed my hand to my stomach, feeling for movement, for anything. Too early. The baby was barely real yet, just cells dividing in the dark.

The tote bag's lining had a small tear near the bottom seam. Hugo had made that tear six years ago, the day before I left the Collins estate. He'd sewn something inside while I packed, his face expressionless.

"Just in case," he'd said. "You don't have to use it. But it's there."

I'd forgotten about it. Five years of playing poor, of pretending the Collins name meant nothing, and I'd forgotten Hugo's insurance policy.

My fingers found the tear. The fabric gave way easily, and I felt the hard edge of plastic. The burner phone was smaller than my palm, ancient by modern standards. The battery indicator showed half charge.

Footsteps in the hallway. I shoved the phone back into the lining and dove for the bed.

The door opened. Clara entered carrying a silver tray, her silk robe replaced by yoga pants and a cashmere sweater. She looked like she'd stepped out of a lifestyle blog. Effortless. Perfect.

"You're awake." She set the tray on the nightstand. Fruit. Yogurt. Orange juice. "You need to eat. For the baby."

I didn't move.

Clara perched on the edge of the bed, too close. Her perfume was familiar—the same brand I used to wear before I left the Upper East Side. Before I became someone else.

"I brought something to show you." She pulled out a tablet, swiped it open. "The nursery."

The screen filled with soft yellows and whites. A crib with hand-carved details. A rocking chair positioned near windows that overlooked Central Park. Shelves lined with books and stuffed animals arranged by color.

"I designed it myself," Clara said. Her voice had gone dreamy. "Atticus wanted gray, but I insisted on something warmer. A baby needs warmth."

She swiped through more photos. A changing table. A mobile with silver stars. Monogrammed blankets.

"This is where I'll raise your child," she continued. "Where I'll read bedtime stories and sing lullabies. Where I'll be the mother you could never be."

My nails dug into my palms.

Clara leaned closer. "I've been watching you for three years, Delilah. Did you know that? Learning your habits. The way you take your coffee. How you tuck your hair behind your left ear when you're nervous." She demonstrated, her fingers mimicking my gesture. "I even bought the same shampoo. Atticus said he could barely tell us apart in the dark."

The room tilted.

"And your parents' graves." Her smile widened. "That was me too. The spray paint, the broken headstones. I knew you'd run to Atticus for comfort. You always did when you were scared."

I lunged. My hands found her throat before conscious thought caught up. We crashed to the floor, the tray scattering fruit across expensive carpet.

The guards were on me in seconds. They peeled my fingers from Clara's neck and threw me back on the bed. Clara stood, smoothing her sweater, her expression unchanged.

"Stress isn't good for the baby," she said, her voice hoarse. Then she left.

I waited until the lock clicked. Until the footsteps faded. Then I retrieved the burner phone.

The screen glowed to life. One button. Red. Hugo had programmed it years ago—a direct line to his encrypted server, a GPS beacon that would scream my location to every Collins security asset within a hundred miles.

I pressed it.

Nothing happened. No confirmation. No sound. Just the screen going dark.

I shoved the phone back into the lining as the door opened again.

The next day, I didn't eat. The tray Clara brought for breakfast sat untouched. Lunch too. By evening, my stomach cramped with hunger, but I kept my hands folded over my belly, protective.

Atticus came that night. He stood in the doorway, his expression clinical.

"You need to eat."

"No."

"The baby needs nutrients."

"Then let me go."

He studied me like I was a problem to solve. Then he left.

Clara arrived an hour later with a silver coffee pot. The smell hit me first—dark roast, the expensive kind. She poured a cup, her movements deliberate.

"Atticus is worried about you." Her voice had an edge. "He keeps checking on you. Asking Dr. Chen about your vitals. Your stress levels."

She set the cup down too hard. Coffee sloshed over the rim.

"He never worried about me like that," she continued. "Even when I was sick. Even when I needed him."

I watched her fingers whiten around the pot's handle.

"You're nothing," she hissed. "Just an incubator. A vessel. But he still looks at you like you matter."

She moved toward me. I scrambled backward, but the headboard stopped me.

Clara's foot caught the edge of the rug. The coffee pot tilted. Scalding liquid arced through the air.

I screamed as it hit my legs. The pain was immediate, blinding. My skin blistered. The smell of burned flesh filled the room.

Clara stood over me, the empty pot dangling from her hand.

"I only need the baby to survive," she said softly. "Not you. Remember that. And if you keep being difficult, I'll have Dr. Chen induce labor early. Twenty-four weeks is viable. Barely. But viable."

She left me there, my legs on fire, my screams echoing off cream-colored walls.

And somewhere in the city, I prayed Hugo had received my signal.