My Husband Let His Mistress Torture Me in Labor

Sasha's fingers wrapped around Bryce's wrist. She pulled him three steps away from where I knelt on the gravel, my jeans soaked through, my body shaking.

"Bryce." Her voice was low. Urgent. "Listen to me."

I couldn't hear what she said. Just the murmur of her voice. The way Bryce's head tilted toward hers. The way his eyes flicked to me, then back to her.

Three seconds. That's how long he looked at me.

Then he pulled his car keys from his pocket and walked to the SUV.

"Bryce!" I tried to stand. My legs buckled. Another contraction ripped through me, so sharp I saw stars. "Bryce, please—"

He unlocked the driver's side door.

"Get in," he said flatly.

Sasha grabbed my arm and hauled me upright. Her nails dug into my skin. I stumbled forward, barely able to walk. She shoved me toward the back seat. I collapsed onto the leather, gasping.

"Hospital," I choked out. "Bryce, I need a hospital—"

He started the engine.

Sasha slid into the passenger seat and twisted around to look at me. She reached into her purse and pulled out a fistful of white zip ties.

My breath stopped.

"What are you doing?"

She didn't answer. She grabbed my ankles and yanked them together. I tried to kick, but the contraction seized me again and I couldn't move. She looped the plastic around my legs and pulled tight. The zip tie bit into my skin.

"Stop—" I clawed at her hands. "Stop it!"

She pulled tighter. My ankles were locked together. I couldn't spread my legs. Couldn't push. Couldn't—

"Women used to give birth in fields," Sasha said calmly. She reached back into her purse and pulled out a lipstick. Red. She twisted it open and looked in the visor mirror, reapplying the color in slow, even strokes. "They squatted, delivered, and went right back to work. You're being dramatic."

I stared at her. At the lipstick. At the casual way she capped it and dropped it back into her bag.

"Bryce," I whispered. "Please. Our baby—"

He pulled onto the main road.

And drove away from the hospital.

I saw the sign first. Blue and white. The universal H with an arrow pointing left. Seattle General Medical Center — 2 miles.

Bryce turned right.

"No!" I screamed. "The hospital's that way!"

He didn't respond. Just kept driving. His hands were steady on the wheel. His jaw was set.

Another contraction hit. I arched off the seat, my bound ankles jerking uselessly. The pain was fire. It was tearing. I couldn't breathe through it.

"Bryce, please—"

Sasha turned up the radio.

I don't know how long we drove. Time collapsed. There were only the contractions. The wet seat beneath me. The pressure building inside me like something was going to split open.

I saw another hospital sign. Northwest Medical Center — 3 miles. Bryce passed the exit without slowing.

I screamed until my throat burned. Until my voice cracked and died. I clawed at the door handle, but the child lock was on. I pounded on the window. No one could hear me.

The city lights blurred past. We circled. Outskirts. Industrial roads. Empty parking lots. I saw Harborview's tower glowing in the distance. Bryce turned the other way.

I lost consciousness.

When I woke, the pain was worse. My vision swam. My body was trying to push, but my legs were still bound. I could feel Oaklyn inside me, pressed down, stuck. She wasn't moving anymore.

"She's not moving," I whispered. My voice was gone. Just a rasp. "Bryce, the baby's not moving."

Sasha glanced back at me. Her lipstick was still perfect.

"She's fine," she said.

I blacked out again.

When I came to, we were passing Seattle General for the third time. The illuminated sign reflected in the wet windshield. Emergency entrance straight ahead.

Bryce turned left.

I tried to scream. Nothing came out.

The contractions were constant now. No break between them. Just one endless wave of agony. My body was tearing itself apart. I could feel it. Something was wrong. Something was so wrong.

I fumbled for my phone in my pocket. My hands were shaking so hard I could barely grip it. I unlocked the screen. My vision doubled. I scrolled through my contacts.

Andrew.

I hadn't spoken to him in three years. Not since the fight before my wedding. Not since I told him to stay out of my life.

I typed: help

Then: rattlesnake ridge

Then nothing. My fingers wouldn't work anymore.

I hit send.

The phone slipped from my hand and fell to the floor.

I closed my eyes.

Eight hours.

That's how long we circled the city.

Eight hours while my daughter suffocated inside me.

Eight hours while Bryce drove, and Sasha smiled, and I died a little more with every mile.