My Husband Chose His Mistress Over Our Unborn Baby

I came home early.

The Tiffany's bag swung from my fingers as I climbed the townhouse steps, that little blue box inside holding a silver rattle I'd spent an hour choosing. Eight weeks. I was eight weeks pregnant, and I hadn't told anyone yet. Not my father. Not the housekeeper. Especially not Daxton.

I wanted the moment to be perfect.

The foyer was dark. I set my keys in the crystal dish by the door, the small clink echoing through the silence. Daxton's shoes sat by the stairs. His jacket draped over the bannister. He was home.

Then I heard it. Laughter. A woman's voice, high and breathy, floating down from the second floor.

My stomach tightened.

I moved toward the stairs, the Tiffany's bag still in my hand. The guest bedroom door stood ajar. Light spilled into the hallway. I stopped three feet away and looked through the gap.

Daxton sat shirtless against my Egyptian cotton pillows. The ones I'd ordered from Italy. Beside him, a young woman lounged in my silk robe — the cream La Perla one I kept on the back of my bathroom door. She was laughing at something on her phone, her long dark hair spilling over her bare shoulder.

She was pregnant. Very pregnant. Five months, maybe six.

Takeout containers littered the nightstand. I recognized the logo. Marea. My favorite restaurant. The one Daxton always said was too expensive.

Charged to my account.

The woman — girl, really, she couldn't be more than twenty-two — leaned into Daxton's chest. He kissed her hair. She tilted her face up, and he kissed her mouth.

I raised my phone.

My hands didn't shake. I tapped the record button and held it steady, framing them both in the screen. The timestamp glowed in the corner. Tuesday, 6:47 PM.

Daxton's head turned.

His eyes met mine through the doorway.

For one second, we just stared at each other. Then he lunged off the bed.

"Arabella—"

I stepped back. He came through the door fast, reaching for my phone. I twisted away, holding it high.

"Give me that." His voice was sharp. Not apologetic. Angry.

"No."

He grabbed my wrist. His fingers dug into the bone. I tried to pull free, but he was stronger. We struggled on the landing, his other hand clawing for the phone.

"Let go—"

He shoved me.

Hard.

I stumbled backward. My heel caught the edge of the top step. For one weightless moment, I hung in empty air.

Then I fell.

The marble steps slammed into my spine. My shoulder cracked against the bannister. I tumbled, my body folding and unfolding, each impact a burst of white pain. The Tiffany's bag flew from my hand.

I hit the foyer floor.

The air punched out of my lungs. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. The ceiling spun above me, the chandelier a blurred circle of light.

Something warm spread beneath me.

Footsteps on the stairs. I tried to turn my head, tried to call out, but my throat wouldn't work.

"Oh my God." The girl's voice. High. Panicked. "Oh my God, Daxton, I think—"

She moaned.

A long, theatrical sound that echoed through the foyer.

"The baby," she gasped. "Daxton, the baby — I think — oh God, it hurts—"

More footsteps. Running now. Coming down the stairs.

But not toward me.

I managed to turn my head. Daxton stood three steps up, staring at the girl. She clutched her stomach, her face twisted in exaggerated pain.

"It's coming," she whimpered. "Daxton, please—"

He looked at me.

Just once.

I tried to lift my hand. Tried to say his name. The warmth beneath me spread wider. I could feel it now, hot and wet, soaking through my skirt.

Daxton looked away.

He scooped the girl into his arms and carried her down the stairs. She buried her face in his neck, still moaning. He stepped over me. Actually stepped over my outstretched arm, his shoe six inches from my hand.

The front door opened. Closed.

Silence.

I lay on the marble floor in a spreading pool of blood. The Tiffany's bag rested three steps above me, the small blue box visible through the open top.

I don't know how long I lay there. Minutes. Hours. The chandelier slowly came into focus. I counted the crystals. Thirty-two.

A key turned in the lock.

Footsteps. A sharp gasp.

"Mrs. Lawrence!" Maria, the housekeeper. Her voice cracked. "Oh God — oh God—"

She dropped to her knees beside me, her phone already at her ear.

"Yes, 425 East 76th Street — please, she's bleeding — she fell — please hurry—"

I closed my eyes.

Somewhere far away, sirens wailed.