My Husband Chose His Mistress Over Our Unborn Child

The morning light filtering through the basement's tiny window woke me from my feverish dreams. My body ached as I curled tighter on the cold concrete floor, James's blanket still wrapped around my shoulders. The antibiotics had helped somewhat, but my throat still burned with each breath.

The door crashed open with such force that dust rained down from the ceiling. Damon stood silhouetted in the doorway, his face twisted into something barely recognizable.

"Get up," he commanded, his voice like ice.

I tried to rise but my legs buckled beneath me. "Damon, please—I'm still sick—"

He crossed the room in three strides, grabbing my arm and yanking me to my feet. "Your pathetic excuses won't work anymore."

His grip bruised as he dragged me up the stairs, through the kitchen, and into the grand foyer. The mansion's staff had assembled in a semicircle—maids, gardeners, even the cooks from the kitchen. Their faces showed a mixture of pity and morbid curiosity.

Madeline stood at the center, resplendent in a cream-colored dress that highlighted her perfect complexion. Her lips curved into a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"Kneel," Damon ordered, pushing me toward Madeline.

My knees hit the marble floor with a crack that sent pain shooting up my thighs. The fever made the room spin around me as I tried to focus on Madeline's face.

"I found my journal this morning," Damon announced to the gathered staff, holding up a leather-bound book. "It reminded me of something I'd forgotten."

He flipped it open, his finger tracing lines that I knew had been altered. "Elisabeth Duncan has been a dangerous influence in this house."

"Damon," I whispered, "that's not true."

"Silence!" His hand struck my cheek with enough force to snap my head to the side. "You will apologize to Miss Fisher for your behavior."

Madeline stepped forward, her perfume suffocating as she leaned down to meet my eyes. "I'm waiting."

"I'm sorry," I managed, my voice cracking.

"Louder," Damon demanded. "So everyone can hear your shame."

"I'm sorry," I repeated, louder this time, tears burning behind my eyes.

"For what, exactly?" Madeline prompted, her voice honey-sweet with malice.

"For... for attacking you. For being jealous." Each word tasted like poison.

The staff shifted uncomfortably, but none dared speak. I saw James at the back, his weathered face tight with suppressed anger.

"Good," Madeline purred, straightening up. "Now perhaps you'll remember your place."

Damon nodded curtly, then dismissed the staff with a wave. As they scattered, he grabbed my arm again. "Back to the basement. You'll stay there until you learn proper respect."

---

Three days later, I discovered the small plus sign on the pregnancy test James had smuggled to me. My hands trembled as I stared at it, unable to process what it meant.

A child. Damon's child.

I pressed my palm against my still-flat stomach, a wild hope blooming in my chest despite everything. Perhaps this could change things. Perhaps when Damon learned he would be a father, something in his broken mind might heal.

That evening, when James brought my dinner, I whispered, "I need to see Damon. Alone."

"Miss Elisabeth," he warned, "after what happened—"

"Please," I begged. "This is important."

An hour later, James led me to Damon's study. He knocked softly before opening the door.

"Mr. Mitchell, Miss Elisabeth would like a word."

Damon looked up from his desk, his expression hardening. "What does she want?"

"To speak with you privately," James replied, then quietly withdrew.

I stood in the doorway, my heart hammering against my ribs. Damon's study was the one place in the mansion where he kept memories of Catherine—photographs, letters, a single white rose pressed between the pages of his favorite book.

"What is it?" he demanded, setting down his pen. "Make it quick."

I stepped inside, closing the door behind me. "I have something to tell you."

His eyes narrowed. "If this is another attempt to manipulate me—"

"I'm pregnant."

The words hung in the air between us. Damon's pen dropped to the desk with a clatter.

"What did you say?" His voice had lost its edge, becoming uncertain.

"I'm carrying your child," I whispered, my hand instinctively moving to my stomach.

Something shifted in his expression—confusion, disbelief, and something else I couldn't name. Slowly, he rose from his chair and crossed the room until he stood before me.

Without warning, he reached out, his large hand gently covering mine where it rested on my abdomen. His touch was so tender it made my breath catch.

"Is this... is this real?" he asked, his voice barely audible.

For a moment, the walls between us seemed to crumble. His eyes met mine, clear and searching—almost like the Damon I'd glimpsed in unguarded moments over the past five years.

"Yes," I whispered, hope fluttering in my chest like a fragile bird. "It's real."