My Husband Made Me Carry His Mistress’s Baby

Dawn broke over Manhattan in a wash of bruised purples and grays, the light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse I once called home. My hands flew as I shoved clothes into my overnight bag—cashmere sweaters, a silk blouse, anything to pad the stack of cash I’d hidden in a sock. My heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs, a stark contrast to the deathly silence of the apartment.

I didn't bother with the jewelry. I just needed out. I needed Victoria.

I crept into the hallway, the plush runner swallowing the sound of my footsteps. The elevator was my only exit; the service stairs were alarmed. I pressed the call button, my breath hitching as the numbers descended. *Ten. Five. Two. One.*

The doors slid open with a soft chime. But instead of an empty car, a wall of black suit blocked my path.

"Going somewhere, Mrs. Burke?"

It was Grigori, the head of Jaxson’s security detail. His eyes were devoid of the warmth they used to hold when I’d ask about his daughter. Behind him, emerging from the shadows of the foyer like a specter, was Jaxson.

He looked impeccable in his charcoal suit, not a hair out of place, despite the chaos of last night. He reached out, his palm open. "The phone, Nina."

"I'm leaving, Jaxson. You can't keep me here."

"The phone."

I clutched my clutch tighter, but Grigori moved with terrifying speed, wrenching the bag from my grip. He handed the device to Jaxson. My husband didn't even look at the screen before he dropped it onto the marble floor and brought his heel down. The crunch of glass and metal sounded sickeningly like a bone breaking.

"Mrs. Burke is having a severe hormonal episode due to the pregnancy," Jaxson announced to the gathering house staff, his voice smooth, authoritative. "She is confused and hysterical. No calls in or out. She is on strict bed rest until I say otherwise."

The housekeeper lowered her eyes. The doors to the elevator slid shut, sealing me in.

By evening, the penthouse felt like a pressurized cabin. The air was thick with tension and the cloying scent of sesame oil and fried pork.

Jaxson lay sprawled on the living room sofa, his face the color of wet ash. One hand clutched his abdomen, his knuckles white. His chronic gastritis—a fire in his gut that I had managed for three years with steamed fish and alkaline water—was roaring.

"Here, darling," Isabela cooed, wheeling herself closer. She held out a carton of General Tso’s chicken, the grease glistening under the chandelier light. "You need to eat something rich. It’ll coat your stomach."

I stood by the kitchen island, watching the slow-motion train wreck. She was poisoning him with kindness, and he was too arrogant to see it.

Jaxson took a bite, swallowed, and immediately doubled over, a guttural groan tearing from his throat. He threw the carton onto the coffee table, splattering sauce onto the pristine rug.

"Damn it!" He glared at me, his eyes bloodshot and wild with pain. "This is your fault. You refused to cook. You want me to suffer?"

"I want a divorce," I said, my voice steady despite the trembling in my knees.

"Fix it," he hissed, pointing a shaking finger at the medicine cabinet. "Mix the powder. Now."

My instinct was to let him rot. But the habit of care was a deep groove in my psyche, and his agony was palpable. I walked to the cabinet, mixing the antacid powder with water. My hands shook as I stirred the cloudy liquid. I handed it to him, and he snatched it without a word, gulping it down while Isabela watched, her expression a mask of faux concern that didn't reach her predatory eyes.

He needed me. He hated me, but he needed me. It was a pathetic realization.

Later, the silence of the house became suffocating. I needed a lifeline. I found Maria, the youngest maid, dusting the hallway sconces. She had always been kind to me.

"Maria," I whispered, pressing a folded note into her apron pocket along with my diamond stud earrings. "Please. Get this to Victoria Chen. Don't let anyone see."

Maria’s eyes widened, darting toward the security cameras, but she nodded, her fingers closing over the bribe.

I exhaled, a fraction of the weight lifting off my chest. I turned to head back to my room, but a sound stopped me.

The hum of a motorized wheelchair.

Isabela was waiting at the top of the grand staircase. She held the note in her hand, waving it like a trophy. Maria stood behind her, looking at the floor, shame burning her cheeks.

"You really are desperate, aren't you, Nina?" Isabela sneered, her voice dropping the sweet act. "Bribing the help? Jaxson handles their paychecks, not you."

"Give that back," I demanded, stepping forward.

Jaxson’s heavy footsteps echoed from the corridor behind me. Isabela’s eyes flicked to him, and a wicked, calculated smile curled her lips.

"Oh, Nina, no!" she suddenly shrieked, her voice pitching up into a terrified wail.

Before I could process the shift, Isabela threw her body weight forward. She launched herself out of the chair, flailing dramatically as she tumbled down the first three carpeted steps. She landed in a heap, her legs sprawled at unnatural angles—angles she could control perfectly well, I now knew.

"My legs!" she screamed, sobbing hysterically as Jaxson sprinted into view. "Jaxson, help! She pushed me! Nina pushed me!"