My Husband Forced Me to Save His Mistress's Baby

On the third day, the pain lived in my bones.

I woke to it. I slept through it. I breathed around it. The injections came twice a day now. Morning and evening. The nurse didn't say my name anymore. She just tapped the syringe, pushed the needle into my abdomen, and left.

I stopped asking questions. I stopped saying please.

I lay on my side and watched the door.

That afternoon, it opened. But it wasn't the nurse.

Kenia stepped in carrying a bouquet of white lilies. She wore a cream cashmere sweater that draped perfectly over her belly. Her hair was tied back in a soft bun. She looked like something out of a magazine.

'Lilah,' she said, her voice bright and warm. 'I wanted to check on you.'

I didn't move. I just looked at her.

She set the flowers on the table by the window and glanced toward the door. The guard was still there. She smiled at him. 'Thank you. I'll only be a moment.'

He nodded.

She turned back to me, her expression softening into concern. She pulled the chair closer to the bed and sat down, folding her hands in her lap.

'How are you feeling?' she asked gently. 'I know this must be so hard.'

I said nothing.

She reached out and touched my hand. Her fingers were cool. Smooth. 'Barrett is so grateful, you know. He told me last night how brave you are. How selfless.'

I pulled my hand back.

Her smile didn't change. But something in her eyes did.

She leaned closer. Close enough that I could smell her perfume. Something expensive. Something that used to sit on my vanity.

'He hasn't asked about you once,' she whispered.

My chest tightened.

'Not once, Lilah.' Her voice was soft. Almost kind. 'He comes home. We have dinner. We talk about the baby. He holds my hand. He asks if I'm comfortable. If I need anything.' She tilted her head. 'Do you want to know what we did last night?'

I turned my face toward the wall.

'We went to the Met gala,' she continued. 'There were photographers. He wore the navy tux. I wore the Dior you picked out for yourself last year. Remember? The one you never got to wear.'

She pulled out her phone. She held it in front of my face.

I didn't want to look. But I did.

The screen showed a photograph. Barrett in his tux. Kenia beside him in midnight blue silk. His hand rested at the small of her back. They were both smiling. He looked... happy.

She swiped. Another photo. Another. In one, he was laughing at something she'd said. In another, she was looking up at him with her hand on his chest.

'You were never supposed to be his wife,' Kenia said quietly. 'You were supposed to be his debt. And now, finally, you're useful. A breeding vessel. That's the most value you've ever offered the Chapman family.'

She stood. She smoothed her sweater. She picked up her purse.

'Get some rest,' she said, louder now. Sweet again. For the guard. 'You need your strength.'

She left.

I lay there. I stared at the ceiling. I pressed my palms against my eyes until I saw colors.

I did not cry.

---

That night, I couldn't sleep.

The pain was worse. It coiled low and sharp, like something inside me was tearing. I tried lying on my back. On my side. Curled up. Nothing helped.

I heard voices.

At first I thought I was imagining it. But no. It was coming from the other side of the wall. The private lounge next door.

I sat up slowly. I pressed my ear to the cold plaster.

Laughter. Low and warm. A woman's voice.

Kenia.

She was speaking French. Fast and fluid. I only caught pieces.

'...non, non, il est stupide... l'argent arrive après le mariage... oui, comme prévu...'

I held my breath.

A name. She said a name. 'Étienne.'

More laughter. Then, in English: 'The idiot husband believes everything.'

My heart slammed against my ribs.

She kept talking. Something about a wedding. About money coming through. About how easy it had been.

I pulled back from the wall. My hands were shaking.

I grabbed the notepad on the nightstand. I wrote down everything I could remember. The name. The phrases. The tone.

I had to tell Barrett.

---

He came the next morning. I heard his voice in the hall, clipped and professional, speaking to someone about a surgery schedule.

I sat up too fast. The pain made me gasp. But I pushed through it.

The door opened. He stepped inside, still wearing his scrubs. He didn't look at me. He looked at the chart clipped to the end of the bed.

'Barrett,' I said. My voice cracked. 'I need to tell you something.'

He flipped a page.

'Last night I heard Kenia. She was on the phone. She was speaking French. She said—'

'Lilah.' He didn't look up. 'I don't have time for this.'

'She mentioned a man. Étienne. She said something about money after a wedding. She called someone an idiot husband. Barrett, please. She said—'

'Enough.'

He set the chart down. He finally looked at me. His eyes were flat.

'You are not going to slander her,' he said quietly. 'You are unstable. The medication is affecting your judgment.'

'I'm not making this up,' I whispered. 'I heard her. I wrote it down. Just check her phone. Just ask her—'

'I will do no such thing.' His voice was ice. 'You are jealous. You are desperate. And you will stop this immediately.'

He turned toward the door.

'Barrett, please—'

He stopped. He didn't turn around.

'I'm doubling the guard rotation,' he said. 'For your own safety.'

Then he left.

I sat there. The notepad was still in my hand.

I looked down at the words I'd written.

Étienne. The idiot husband. Money after the wedding.

I folded the paper. I pressed it against my chest.

And for the first time in five years, I understood.

He would never believe me.

No matter what I said. No matter what I showed him.

I was already gone.