My Husband Believed His Mistress After I Miscarried

I packed for Miami on a Tuesday morning. One carry-on. Three days of meetings. The investor portfolio sat in my briefcase, still warm from the printer. I zipped the suitcase and set it by the door.

Maximilian was in the bedroom, buttoning his shirt. I stood in the doorway and watched him for a moment. He looked tired. There were shadows under his eyes.

"I'm pregnant," I said.

His hands stopped. He looked at me in the mirror. Our eyes met in the reflection.

"What?"

"Six weeks." I kept my voice level. "I found out last month. I'm telling you now because I'm getting on a plane, and if something happens, you should know."

He turned around. Stared at me. His mouth opened, then closed.

"You're serious."

"Yes."

He sat down on the edge of the bed. Put his head in his hands. I waited. The clock on the nightstand ticked. Thirty seconds. A minute.

"I need time," he said finally. "To process this."

I picked up my carry-on. "Okay."

"Camille—"

"My car's downstairs." I walked to the door. Stopped. Looked back at him. He was still sitting there, head down, shoulders curved. "I'll be back Friday."

He didn't say anything else. I left.

The Miami meetings went well. Three investors, two lunches, one dinner that ran until ten. I smiled. I answered questions. I showed them the patents, the projections, the three-year plan Rachel and I had built from nothing. They nodded. They said they'd be in touch. One of them shook my hand and said, "Your father would be proud."

I thanked him. I didn't cry.

On Thursday afternoon, I finished early. The last investor had a family emergency. I texted Rachel: *Heading back tonight instead of tomorrow. Don't reschedule anything.* She sent back a thumbs-up.

I got in the car at four. The driver was young, professional, hired through the hotel. He loaded my suitcase and opened the door. I slid into the back seat and checked my phone. Two emails from Rachel. One text from the housekeeper asking about groceries. Nothing from Maximilian.

I put the phone in my lap. Looked out the window. Miami traffic crawled. The sun was bright and hot. Palm trees lined the highway.

"Airport, right?" the driver said.

"Yes. American terminal."

He nodded and merged into the center lane.

I closed my eyes. My head ached. The meetings had been good, but I was tired. The kind of tired that sat behind my ribs and made breathing feel like work. I pressed one hand against my stomach. Still flat. Still just mine.

The impact came from the right.

Metal screamed. Glass exploded inward. My body slammed against the seatbelt. My head cracked against something hard. The world tilted. Spun. Stopped.

I couldn't breathe. The seatbelt was locked across my chest, cutting into my ribs. My abdomen throbbed. Something warm ran down my face. I blinked. My vision blurred red.

Outside, voices. Footsteps. Someone shouting. I turned my head—slow, everything slow—and saw the crumpled hood of another car pressed against the passenger door. The windshield was a spiderweb of cracks.

I reached for my phone. It had fallen into the footwell. I bent forward. Pain ripped through my stomach. I gasped. Kept reaching. My fingers closed around it.

I unlocked the screen. Blood smeared across the glass. I pulled up Maximilian's number. Hit call.

It rang. Once. Twice. Three times.

Pick up. Please pick up.

Four rings. Five.

In a bedroom in New York, the phone buzzed on a nightstand. Addison lifted her head from the pillow. Glanced at the screen. Saw my name glowing in the dark.

She reached over. Her finger hovered. Then pressed.

The call went silent.

She set the phone face-down on the nightstand. Turned back to Maximilian. He was already asleep, one arm across his eyes.

"Spam callers," she murmured. "At this hour."

She pulled the blanket up and closed her eyes.

In Miami, I stared at my phone. Call ended. I tried again. It rang once. Voicemail.

My hands were shaking. I dropped the phone. It clattered onto the seat.

Someone opened the driver's door. A paramedic. Young, calm voice. "Ma'am, can you hear me?"

I nodded. Tried to speak. Nothing came out.

"We're going to get you out. Stay still."

They cut the seatbelt. Lifted me onto a stretcher. The sky was too bright. I closed my eyes. The pain in my stomach was spreading. Deep. Wrong.

The ambulance smelled like disinfectant. Someone put an oxygen mask over my face. Someone else pressed gauze against my head. I heard radios crackling. Medical terms I didn't understand.

"Is there someone we can call?" a voice asked.

I tried to say his name. It came out as a whisper.

They didn't hear me.

At the hospital, they wheeled me into a bright room. A doctor leaned over me. Asked questions. I answered. My voice sounded far away.

"Are you pregnant?" she asked.

I nodded.

Her face changed. She turned to a nurse. Said something I couldn't hear.

They moved fast after that. Hands on my wrist. Needles. Machines beeping. I stared at the ceiling. White tiles. Fluorescent lights.

The pain got worse. Then it stopped.

Everything stopped.

The doctor came back. She stood beside the bed. Her face was kind. Tired.

"I'm sorry," she said.

I looked at her. I understood.

She kept talking. Medical words. Procedure. Recovery. I didn't listen. I turned my head and looked at the tray beside the bed. My phone sat there. Dark. Silent.

No missed calls. No messages.

I closed my eyes. The room was very quiet. Somewhere down the hall, a monitor beeped. A door opened and closed. Footsteps faded.

I was alone.