My Husband Denied My Pregnancy to Protect His First Love

I reached the heavy oak door of the master bedroom. My hand closed over the cool brass knob. Enzo’s heavy footsteps stopped right behind me.

“What do you think you're doing?” he demanded. His breath hit the back of my neck.

I turned around. I leaned against the doorframe and smiled. “Going to bed.”

“I told you,” he hissed. “Isabella is taking the master. She needs the space. You are moving to the guest room.”

“No,” I said simply.

His dark eyes widened. He wasn't used to hearing that word from me. “Excuse me?”

“I am still your wife, Enzo. Until my lawyers review those papers and the ink dries, this is my house. And this is my room.”

Isabella hovered at the end of the hall. She clutched a silk handkerchief to her chest. “Enzo,” she whimpered. “It's fine. I don't want to cause trouble. I can sleep in the tiny guest room.”

She waited for him to defend her. She wanted him to yell at me and drag me out by my wrist.

I didn't give him the chance. “Perfect,” I said brightly. “Glad we agree. Goodnight, sister.”

I stepped inside and slammed the door right in his handsome face. I turned the deadbolt with a loud, satisfying click. For three years, I used to sit on the edge of this massive bed, leaving the bedside lamp on, waiting for him to come home. Not tonight. Tonight, I climbed under the silk sheets and slept like a baby.

The next morning, bright sunlight poured into the penthouse kitchen. I walked in wearing my favorite silk robe. I felt incredibly rested.

Enzo and Isabella were already sitting at the marble island. Isabella was sipping black coffee. Her eyes were slightly puffy, playing the victim perfectly. Enzo was rubbing his temples. He looked like he hadn't slept at all.

I ignored them and walked straight to the pantry. I pulled out a large, plastic bottle of prenatal vitamins.

Rattle, rattle.

The sound echoed loudly in the quiet kitchen. Enzo looked up. His jaw tightened instantly.

I popped the cap off. I poured a giant pink pill into my palm. I filled a glass with fresh orange juice and swallowed the pill with a dramatic gulp.

“Ah,” I sighed loudly. I patted my flat stomach. “Nothing like morning vitamins for the baby.”

Isabella’s hand shook. Her dark coffee sloshed over the rim of her mug and spilled onto the white marble.

“Blaire,” Enzo warned. His voice was dangerously low. “Stop it.”

I walked over to him. I placed my hands gently on his broad shoulders. He stiffened beneath my touch.

“I just can't help it, honey,” I cooed. I made sure my voice was loud enough to ring in Isabella's ears. “I was reading about it last night. A failed vasectomy is so rare! It's less than a one percent chance. We are just so incredibly lucky.”

I leaned down, placing my lips right next to his ear. “It's our little miracle baby.”

Isabella choked out a loud sob. She slammed her mug down on the counter. The ceramic cracked.

“I can't do this!” she cried. She covered her face with her hands and ran out of the kitchen. Her bare feet slapped frantically against the hardwood floor.

Enzo jumped up. His chair scraped violently against the floorboards. “Look what you did,” he snarled.

I took a slow sip of my orange juice. “Just thanking my husband for his strong swimmers.”

Enzo glared at me. His hands balled into tight fists at his sides. “You are completely out of your mind.” He pressed a hand to his stomach. He winced slightly, his face going pale. “Make my breakfast. And start prepping the lasagna for dinner. Isabella loves your lasagna.”

I stared at him. He really thought nothing had changed. He thought he could still give me orders. He thought I would cook my signature dish for the woman who stole my life.

I walked over to the massive stainless-steel refrigerator. I pulled the heavy door open.

Inside, neatly stacked on the middle shelf, were five glass containers. They were filled with Enzo's custom organic meal prep. Peeled tomatoes, steamed chicken, zero spices. I spent hours making them every single Sunday so his chronic stomach ulcers wouldn't bleed.

I grabbed the first container. I walked over to the trash can and stepped on the metal pedal. The lid popped open.

I dropped the glass container inside. Crash.

Enzo froze. “What are you doing?”

I grabbed the next two containers. Crash. Crash. Glass shattered against the bottom of the bin. Steamed chicken and organic rice spilled over the black plastic bags.

“Blaire!” Enzo yelled. He rushed forward and grabbed my arm. “Have you lost your mind? That's my food!”

I yanked my arm out of his grip. I brushed my sleeve like he had left dirt on it.

“I'm pregnant, Enzo,” I said coldly. “The smell of your bland, boring food makes me violently nauseous. I can't be around it.”

“My stomach can't handle anything else!” he shouted. A fresh wave of pain crossed his face. He pressed his hand harder against his abdomen, bending forward slightly.

“Then order takeout,” I suggested. I picked up the last two containers and tossed them into the trash. Crash. “Or better yet, ask Isabella to cook for you. She's the woman of your dreams, right? I'm sure she makes a lovely lasagna.”

I didn't wait for his reply. I turned around and walked right out of the kitchen.

My heart didn't hurt. My hands didn't shake. The heavy chains of my three-year marriage were finally breaking. And it felt absolutely amazing.