My Husband's Mistress Killed My Baby

The baby kicked again, a sharp jab against my ribs that pulled me from the edge of sleep. Eight months pregnant, and my bladder had become a tyrant with no respect for the clock. 2:17 AM glowed accusingly from Sterling's phone on the nightstand.

I eased myself out of bed, one hand supporting my lower back, the other pressed against my swollen belly. Sterling didn't stir. He'd been sleeping deeper lately, or maybe I'd just gotten better at moving quietly around his slumber.

The hardwood floor was cold against my bare feet as I padded toward the hallway bathroom. But as I passed the top of the stairs, something stopped me. Music. Soft, barely audible, drifting up from the kitchen below.

I knew that song.

My heart stuttered as recognition hit me like a physical blow. "At Last" by Etta James. The song Sterling and I had danced to at our wedding reception, swaying together as our guests watched and my mother cried happy tears into her champagne.

Who was playing our song at two in the morning?

I crept down the stairs, my hand gripping the banister for support. Each step felt deliberate, careful, as if the house itself was holding its breath. The music grew clearer, accompanied by something else—the soft shuffle of feet on tile.

At the bottom of the stairs, I peered around the corner into the kitchen.

The breath left my lungs in a silent rush.

Sterling stood in the center of our kitchen, his arms wrapped around Gemma's waist. They swayed together in the dim glow of the under-cabinet lights, her head resting against his shoulder. But it wasn't just the dancing that made my world tilt sideways.

She was wearing my robe.

The burgundy silk robe Sterling had given me last Christmas, the one with the delicate lace trim that he'd said made me look like a movie star. It hung differently on Gemma's smaller frame, the belt cinched tight around her narrow waist, the fabric pooling around her ankles where it had fit me perfectly.

Sterling's hand wasn't just on her waist—it was at the base of her neck, his fingers tangled in her dark hair. That spot. The exact spot he touched when we made love, the place that made me shiver and arch against him. The intimacy of it, the familiarity, sent ice through my veins.

I pressed my palm against the doorframe, my fingernails digging into the painted wood. My belly contracted suddenly, a sharp tightening that made me gasp. Was it the baby? Or was it the sight of my husband holding another woman the way he'd held me on our wedding night?

The contraction passed, but the ache in my chest only deepened.

They moved together like they'd done this before, like they knew each other's rhythm. Gemma tilted her head up, and I caught the soft smile on her lips, the way her eyes fluttered closed as Sterling's thumb traced the line of her jaw.

I took a step back, my foot catching the edge of one of Lily's Lego blocks. The plastic clattered against the hardwood, the sound sharp and accusing in the quiet house.

Sterling's head snapped up, his arms dropping from Gemma's waist so quickly she stumbled slightly. But he didn't look at me first. His eyes found Gemma's, and in that split second, I saw something pass between them—a look that spoke of shared secrets and careful coordination.

Then he turned to me, and his face transformed. The tender expression he'd worn while holding her melted away, replaced by the concerned, caring husband mask I knew so well.

"Wren, baby." His voice was soft, worried. "What are you doing down here? You shouldn't be walking around barefoot—the floors are cold."

He moved toward me, his hands reaching out as if to steady me, but I couldn't stop staring at Gemma. She stood frozen by the kitchen island, her cheeks flushed, my robe hanging open just enough to reveal the thin nightgown underneath.

"Gemma had a rough night," Sterling continued, his hand settling on my shoulder with practiced gentleness. "Her ex called and said some pretty awful things. She was crying, couldn't sleep. I was just trying to help her feel better."

The explanation rolled off his tongue so smoothly, so naturally, that for a moment I almost believed it. Almost.

"She's wearing my robe," I said quietly.

Sterling's hand tightened on my shoulder, guiding me toward the stairs. "She didn't pack enough clothes for the visit. You know how it is—she grabbed the first thing she could find. Besides," he paused, his voice taking on a note I'd never heard before, "it's not like it fits you right now anyway. You've put on quite a bit of weight."

The words hit me like a slap. In front of Gemma. He'd criticized my pregnant body in front of his sister, the woman who was wearing my clothes, dancing to my song, being held in the place that should have been mine.

I glanced back at Gemma, expecting to see embarrassment or sympathy in her expression. Instead, I caught the tail end of a smile—quick and satisfied—before she looked down at her hands.

"Come on, let's get you back to bed," Sterling said, his arm around my waist now, steering me away from the kitchen. "You need your rest. The baby needs you to rest."

I let him guide me upstairs, my legs feeling unsteady beneath me. At the top of the stairs, I turned back one more time. Gemma was still standing in the kitchen, but she'd moved to the counter where Sterling's phone sat. She reached for it, her fingers dancing across the screen.

Turning off our wedding song.

Back in our bedroom, I sat on the edge of the bed, my hands folded over my belly. Sterling kissed the top of my head, a gesture that once would have comforted me.

"Try to get some sleep, okay? I'm going to make sure Gemma's all right, then I'll be up."

After he left, I reached for my phone on the nightstand. My fingers hovered over Harper's name in my contacts. I started typing: "I think Sterling and Gemma—"

I stopped. Deleted the words. Started again: "Something's wrong. I saw them—"

Deleted again.

How do you tell someone that your world is crumbling? How do you put into words the feeling that everything you thought you knew was a lie?

I set the phone aside and noticed Sterling's iPad on his nightstand. We'd always shared the password—my birthday, 0724. I'd used it just last week to order groceries.

Now, when I entered the numbers, the screen shook. Wrong password.

I tried Lily's birthday. Wrong. Our anniversary. Wrong. Sterling's mother's birthday. Wrong.

Then, with a sinking feeling in my stomach, I tried Gemma's birthday. 1015.

The screen unlocked.

The browser history was right there, no attempt to hide it. "Prenup loopholes Texas." "How to file for divorce while spouse is pregnant." "Custody rights during pregnancy."

The searches were all from this week.

My hands shook as I stared at the screen. I should screenshot this. I should call Harper. I should wake up Lily and pack our bags and leave right now.

Instead, I set the iPad back exactly where I'd found it and crawled under the covers. The baby kicked again, a gentle flutter this time, as if sensing my distress.

I placed both hands on my belly and whispered into the darkness, "It's just us now, little one. Just us."

Downstairs, I could hear the soft murmur of voices, Sterling and Gemma talking in hushed tones. Planning. Deciding my future without me.

I closed my eyes and tried to remember what it felt like to be safe in my own home.