My Husband Let His Mistress Torture Me in Labor

The phone slipped from my fingers and hit the floor mat. I heard it buzz once. Then nothing.

I closed my eyes.

The contractions were one long scream now. No breaks. Just pressure and fire and something tearing deep inside me. Oaklyn wasn't moving. I couldn't feel her kicks anymore. Just weight. Dead weight pressing down.

I tried to say her name. My lips moved but no sound came out.

The car kept driving.

---

Andrew was in his apartment when his phone lit up.

He picked it up. Saw Melissa's name. His heart stopped.

Three years. She hadn't contacted him in three years.

He opened the message.

*drving circles cant stop pleas help me legs tied baby coming*

He read it twice. Then he moved.

He grabbed his keys off the counter and ran for the door. His fingers flew across his phone screen as he sprinted down the hall. Location sharing. He'd never turned it off after she cut him out. He'd told himself it was in case she ever needed him. She never had.

Until now.

The blue dot appeared on his map. Moving. South edge of the city. Industrial zone near the port.

Andrew hit the parking garage at a dead run. He threw himself into his car and peeled out onto the street.

Eighty miles per hour through downtown. Ninety on the freeway. He blew through two red lights and didn't slow down.

Twenty-two minutes.

That's how long it took him to reach the blue dot.

---

I woke to the sound of shattering glass.

Cold air rushed in. Hands grabbed my shoulders. Strong hands. Familiar.

"Melissa."

I knew that voice.

Andrew.

I tried to open my eyes. Everything was blurry. I saw his face above mine. Pale. Terrified.

"I've got you," he said. His voice cracked. "I've got you."

He pulled something from his pocket. A knife. The blade flicked open. He sawed through the zip ties around my ankles. The plastic snapped. My legs fell apart.

The pressure released all at once. I screamed.

Andrew lifted me out of the car. I felt his arms under my knees, my back. He carried me like I weighed nothing. I heard Bryce shouting something behind us. Andrew didn't stop. Didn't even look back.

He laid me across the back seat of his car. Then he was in the driver's seat, engine roaring, tires screeching.

"Hold on," he said. "Hospital's four minutes away. Just hold on."

I couldn't answer. Another contraction ripped through me. I felt something give. Something warm and wet flooding out of me.

Not water this time.

Blood.

---

Seattle General's emergency entrance was lit up like daylight.

Andrew didn't pull into the ambulance bay. He drove straight up onto the curb, threw the car into park, and yanked open the back door.

He lifted me again. Carried me through the automatic doors.

"I need help!" His voice echoed through the waiting room. "She's in labor! She's been in labor for hours! The baby's not moving!"

People in scrubs swarmed us. A gurney appeared. Andrew laid me down on it. Hands pressed against my belly. Voices shouted medical terms I didn't understand.

Someone shone a light in my eyes.

"She's barely responsive. BP's crashing. Get her to OR now."

The ceiling tiles blurred past above me. Fluorescent lights. Faces I didn't know.

I tried to find Andrew. He was running beside the gurney, his hand wrapped around mine.

"You're going to be okay," he said. His voice was shaking. "Both of you. You're going to be okay."

I wanted to believe him.

Then the doors swung shut and he was gone.

---

I don't remember the surgery.

I remember waking up. The recovery room was white and cold. My body felt hollow. Wrong.

A nurse was standing beside the bed. She had kind eyes.

"Your daughter's in the NICU," she said softly. "She's breathing. That's what matters right now."

Breathing.

Not crying. Not healthy.

Breathing.

"Can I see her?"

The nurse hesitated. "The doctor will be in soon. He'll explain everything."

She left.

I stared at the ceiling. My hands were shaking. I pressed them against my empty stomach and started to cry.

The door opened.

A man in blue scrubs walked in. He had a surgical mask pulled down around his neck. His expression was careful. Practiced.

"Mrs. Cooper. I'm Dr. Patel. I performed your C-section."

I sat up. Pain shot through my abdomen. "My baby—"

"Your daughter was born eight minutes after you arrived. She wasn't breathing on her own. We resuscitated her. It took four minutes to get a heartbeat."

Four minutes.

Four minutes without oxygen.

"She's alive," he continued. "But she was deprived of oxygen for an extended period during labor. We're monitoring her closely for signs of hypoxic brain injury."

The words didn't make sense. I shook my head.

"What does that mean?"

Dr. Patel's face softened. "It means we don't know yet. It's too early to tell if there's been permanent damage. She's stable for now. That's the best we can hope for."

Permanent damage.

Brain damage.

Because of Bryce.

Because of Sasha.

Because they kept driving.

"I want to see her," I whispered.

Dr. Patel nodded. "I'll have someone take you to the NICU."

He left.

I sat alone in the white room, staring at my hands, and felt something inside me turn to ice.