My Husband Got my Best Friend Pregnant, so I Left

Jaxon’s POV

I walked back toward the party, my steps lighter than they'd been in years. The weight that had been pressing on my chest for so long was finally gone.

Beatrice was at the bottom of the ocean now, and with her, all my problems had disappeared into the dark water.

A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth as I straightened my jacket and ran a hand through my hair.

The guests were still laughing, still drinking, completely oblivious to what had just happened. Perfect. Everything was going exactly according to plan.

Hannah appeared at my side, her eyes bright with anticipation. She glanced around quickly, making sure no one was watching us, then stepped closer.

"Is it done?" she whispered, her voice barely audible above the music and chatter.

I nodded, unable to suppress the satisfaction in my voice. "Yes. She's gone." I leaned down to her ear, my breath warm against her skin.

"Later, we can just act like she's missing. We'll say she wandered off, maybe fell asleep somewhere. I bet if she's ever found at all, it'll be too late to matter."

Hannah's face lit up with relief and something darker—triumph. She reached up and pulled me down for a kiss, her lips soft and eager against mine.

For a moment, we lost ourselves in each other, in the sweet taste of victory and freedom.

"Finally," she breathed against my lips. "Finally, we can be together. No more hiding, no more pretending."

"Soon," I promised, stroking her cheek. "Very soon, my love."

We separated reluctantly, both of us slipping back into our roles. Hannah smoothed her dress and plastered on her concerned friend expression, while I arranged my features into those of a devoted husband.

The party continued around us, guests mingling and celebrating the vaccine launch. I moved through the crowd, accepting congratulations and praise for "our" groundbreaking work. Every compliment felt like vindication. This was my moment, my triumph. Everything Beatrice had worked for was now mine.

But as the evening wore on, I noticed some of the guests beginning to look around with puzzled expressions.

"Jaxon," Mrs. Wellington approached me, her brow furrowed. "Where's your lovely wife? I haven't seen Beatrice in quite some time. Surely she wouldn't miss her own birthday celebration?"

I put on my most concerned expression, shaking my head with practiced worry. "Oh, Beatrice wasn't feeling well earlier. She had a terrible headache and went to lie down in one of the cabins. You know how she gets with these social events—they can be overwhelming for her."

Mrs. Wellington nodded sympathetically. "Poor dear. Should someone check on her?"

"No, no," I said quickly, placing a reassuring hand on her arm. "She just needs rest. I'll look in on her later."

Similar conversations followed with other guests. Each time, I delivered the same story with the perfect balance of concern and dismissal.

Beatrice was resting, Beatrice was tired, Beatrice would rejoin us soon. The lies rolled off my tongue like honey.

But then I saw Grandfather approaching, his sharp eyes scanning the deck. My stomach tightened slightly. Mateo was harder to fool than the other guests. He had a way of seeing through facades, of sensing when something was amiss.

"Jaxon," his voice was low, commanding. "Where is your wife? Several people have been asking for her."

I maintained my casual demeanor. "She wasn't feeling well, Grandfather. She went to rest."

Mateo's eyes narrowed slightly, studying my face. Then I stepped closer, lowering my voice so only he could hear. "Don't worry. I got everything now, and she won't come back."

His eyebrow raised slowly, a knowing look creeping across his weathered features. "Are you telling me you killed her?"

I met his gaze steadily, my voice dropping to match his whisper. "Why are you shocked? Didn't you kill her parents?"

For a moment, silence stretched between us. Then Grandfather's lips curved into a cold, approving smirk. "Well, good job then. You deserve my company." His hand clapped my shoulder with paternal pride. "Just make sure to clean up your mess."

I nodded, feeling a surge of satisfaction at his approval. "Of course, Grandfather. Everything is under control."

He walked away, and I felt the last piece of my plan click into place. Even Mateo was satisfied.

There would be no questions, no investigations. Just a tragic accident that would soon be forgotten.

Another hour passed peacefully. I was beginning to think we'd made it through the worst when Hannah suddenly let out a piercing scream from the other side of the deck.

"BEATRICE!" she cried, her voice carrying across the water. "Oh my God, where is she? Has anyone seen Beatrice?"

The party came to an abrupt halt. Guests turned toward Hannah, who was now running frantically around the deck, checking behind chairs and peering over railings.

"She left this!" Hannah held up a piece of paper, her hands shaking dramatically. "It's a suicide note! She says she's having such a hard time, that she feels like she has no purpose now that she's finished everything!"

Chaos erupted. Guests gasped and murmured among themselves. Someone called for the captain. Others began searching the yacht, calling Beatrice's name.

I rushed to Hannah's side, snatching the note from her hands. My eyes scanned the carefully crafted words—words we'd written together days ago. It was perfect. Desperate, heartbroken, final.

"No," I whispered, then louder, "NO! This can't be real!"

I let my knees buckle slightly, catching myself against the railing.

The tears came easily—years of practice at manipulation had taught me how to summon them on command.

"She was struggling," I choked out to the gathering crowd. "The miscarriages, the pressure from work... I should have seen the signs. I should have helped her!"

Hannah wrapped her arms around me, her own tears streaming down her face. "It's not your fault, Jaxon. We all missed it. She hid her pain so well."

The guests surrounded us with sympathy and shock. Someone was already calling the coast guard.

Others were comforting Hannah and me, offering hollow words about how sorry they were for our loss.

I buried my face in my hands, shoulders shaking with fabricated grief. Inside, I was celebrating. It was working perfectly. No one suspected anything. They all believed our performance.

But as I lifted my head slightly, something caught my eye in the distance. Far from the yacht, barely visible in the moonlight, I thought I saw movement on the water. A boat, maybe? Or just shadows playing tricks on my vision?

I blinked and looked again, but whatever I'd seen was gone. Just empty ocean stretching to the horizon.