My Husband Made Me Miscarry, Now He Crawls Back in Tears

Seven years into our marriage, I finally got pregnant again.

Bursting with joy, I couldn't wait to share the news with my husband. But before I could, a call shattered my happiness—my mother had been in a car accident.

By the time I rushed to the hospital, it was too late. I hadn't even seen her for the last time

I was numb with grief when a familiar voice drifted from the ward next door.

"Tristan, be gentle. The baby is only a month old. You don't want me to end up like Meredith, who suffered and miscarried, do you?"

"You quietly sabotaged her and made her lose three pregnancies... are you really not going to let her have a child?"

I stepped closer on instinct, and my world tilted. Hillary—who was supposed to be dead—was snuggling against my husband's chest.

"Marrying her is already disgusting enough. I only want you to bear my child."

Tristan's eyes brimmed with tenderness, yet his words were colder than ice.

"But... I killed her mother this afternoon. Will she suspect me?" Hillary's voice trembled.

"Don't be afraid," Tristan murmured, tightening his hold on her. "I'll take care of everything."

My body shook violently. I stumbled back, my mind reeling, then forced myself to turn away and frantically gather evidence to drag Hillary to court.

But before I could act, my brother suddenly clutched his chest, collapsing from a heart attack. I rushed him into the ambulance, only for a massive truck to crash into us with a deafening impact.

Agonizing pain tore through me as my consciousness blurred. Through the haze, I felt Tristan's arms wrapping around my bloodied body.

"Hillary didn't mean it," he whispered in my ear, his voice urgent yet ruthless. "As long as you promise not to press charges, I'll send a helicopter immediately to take you to the best hospital."

He sounded desperate. I nodded through clenched teeth. After I watched my brother taken into the operating room, I fumbled my phone with trembling hands and messaged my father with three sentences: [I forgive you. One month from now I'll bring my brother to find you... and we'll never return.]

The phone rang almost immediately. "Meredith, you finally came to your senses. Don't worry—I'll compensate you properly from now on." He sounded relieved.

I swallowed my anger and answered calmly. "Get me the best lawyer."

After I left the hospital, Tristan arranged my mother's funeral for me. He greeted mourners and looked appropriately solemn, but there was no true sorrow in his eyes. Staring at my mother's warm smile in the portrait felt like a knife in my chest.

I had planned to make Hillary pay—to ease my mother's soul. But Tristan ruined that plan completely.

"Mom, I'm sorry..." I whispered, nails digging into my palm until the pain steadied me. "Wait a little longer. I will make them pay."

Footsteps approached behind me.

"Meredith, I arranged the most dignified funeral for your mother. She'll rest in peace. Don't be too upset." Tristan's tone was detached, as if he spoke of a stranger.

He knelt beside me to reach for the incense, but I slapped his hand away.

"Don't touch my mother's things with your filthy hands."

His brow tightened. He swallowed and tried to control his temper. "You're hurt—don't get worked up." His voice was laced with practiced tenderness, and it made me sick.

"What about Hillary? Aren't you going to explain?" I demanded.

His face changed for a heartbeat; then he answered coolly, as if everything had been planned: "I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to worry. Hillary is just a sister I need to take care of."

I bit back a laugh. "A sister you take care of in bed?"

"Meredith!" His voice shot up. "When I was at my lowest, it was Hillary who stayed with me. She's only doing what you couldn't do—what you should've done. Why speak about her like that?"

Before I could answer, he slammed the door and left.

My legs went weak. Only a week ago he'd been the attentive husband I'd loved. Now, after I moved to sue Hillary, his disguise had come off.

"Meredith, my condolences~" Hillary's syrupy voice snapped me out of my thoughts. She leaned lazily against the doorway like a woman enjoying an excellent performance.

"Tristan has been running around for you. If you say things that hurt him, aren't you afraid he'll give up on you?" she purred.

"I'm not like you—my life isn't just revolving around some man," I snapped.

She chuckled softly. "Pitiful, isn't it? I killed your mother, yet Tristan still shields me without hesitation. Does that make you seethe, Sister?"

Her hand caressed her flat belly, pride dripping from her voice.

"Oh, I forgot to tell you—I'm pregnant. Just one try, and I conceived. You, after three miscarriages, couldn't give him an heir. Tristan says only I'm qualified to give birth to his child. Shouldn't you thank me for completing the task you could never accomplish?"

My hand flew before I realized it, striking her hard across the face.

"Indeed. I should thank you—for revealing his true colors."

She toppled, clutching her abdomen, and shrieked. "Tristan! Help! She wants to kill our baby!"

Tristan came running. In front of everyone, he shoved me aside with one powerful motion. I stumbled back, instinctively pressing my hands to my belly, and fell hard against my mother's memorial table. A hot candle wax seared my palm, but it was nothing compared to the blast of hurt in my chest.

He scooped Hillary into his arms as if to protect her, his eyes rimmed with a hard-edged disgust. "Don't forget your brother is still in the hospital. If anything happens to Hillary or the child, I can stop his treatment with a single word."

My mother was gone; I could not lose my brother either.

I swallowed my rage until it choked me and watched him leave with Hillary. Around me, whispers pierced through me like knives.

"What a pathetic legitimate wife..."

"I heard she drugged him to climb into his bed when Hillary's plane crashed—how shameless!"

"Tristan went after Hillary so publicly back then—how could she insert herself?"

The room blurred, and I fainted.

When I woke up, I was lying in our bedroom with an ice-cold towel on my forehead.

Tristan sat in the shadows, expressionless. When he saw I was awake, he lifted the bowl of broth from the bedside table and spooned a spoonful toward my mouth.

"Drink," he ordered. His movements were practiced, but his gaze held no warmth.

"Hillary and the baby are fine. This matter ends here. The funeral caused too much of a scene. I don't want unnecessary attention and speculation to shift to Hillary."

He leaned in, his voice low, laced with threat.

"My patience is limited. Cooperate, and your brother will receive the best treatment. Otherwise..."

His gaze cut through me, cold and merciless.

I stared at the man I once loved, and felt my heart die completely.

When Hillary's plane supposedly crashed, I stayed by his side day and night and pulled him back from despair. When he finally stepped out of the darkness, the first thing he did was ask me to marry him.

He had always been perfect—warming the bed for me when I was cold, leaving a cup of hot milk on the nightstand; when I miscarried he shouldered the world and held me close, whispering, "It's okay. You being here is enough."

I believed we'd finally found happiness. I believed his tenderness. Now I know it was all a carefully staged performance.

"Tristan." My voice was hoarse, trembling, yet steady.