My Husband’s Wife Wants My Baby Dead

The smell hit me before I even opened my eyes—heavy, cloying, like rotten eggs left to fester in the summer heat. My studio apartment in Queens usually smelled of stale coffee and the damp plaster of the walls, not this suffocating chemical stench.

I tried to sit up, but my body screamed in protest. The burns on my back from the Hamptons fire were still angry, weeping beneath fresh bandages. Every movement was a negotiation with pain. I swung my legs over the edge of the mattress, my head swimming. The hissing sound from the kitchenette was deafening now, a serpent coiled in the corner.

Gas.

Panic, cold and sharp, pierced the haze of my medication. I stumbled toward the door, dragging my injured leg. My fingers, clumsy and trembling, grasped the deadbolt. It turned, but the door wouldn’t budge. I threw my weight against it—what little weight I had left—but it held fast, solid as a tombstone. Something had been wedged under the handle from the outside.

My lungs burned. The air was thick, shimmering with fumes. I pounded on the wood, my screams turning into jagged coughs. *Jacqueline.* She hadn’t been satisfied with the fire. She wanted to make sure I never spoke.

The room began to tilt. Black spots danced in my vision. I slid down the doorframe, the wood rough against my cheek. *So this is it,* I thought, a strange calm settling over me. *I survive the fire just to suffocate in the dark.*

Then, a crash. The wood around the lock splintered inward. A heavy boot struck again, and the door flew open, tearing off its hinges. A figure loomed in the hallway light—tall, imposing, familiar.

"Harper!"

My father, Judge Harold Collins, didn't look like a federal judge in that moment. He looked like a man possessed. He scooped me up, ignoring my cry of pain as he pressed me to his chest, and ran. We were halfway down the stairwell when the world behind us disintegrated. The boom rattled my teeth, a shockwave of heat chasing us down into the cool night air.

I blacked out before we hit the pavement.

***

The rain on the tinted window of the limousine blurred the world into gray streaks. It was fitting weather for a funeral.

"Are you sure you want to see this?" my father asked. His voice was gravel, rough with a rage he was barely containing.

I adjusted the high collar of my coat, flinching as the fabric brushed the burn scars on my neck. "I need to know, Dad."

We sat across the street from the cemetery gates, invisible behind the dark glass. A crowd had gathered around the open grave. I saw them lower the casket—a closed mahogany box containing a Jane Doe my father had procured from the city morgue. The dental records had been swapped. As far as the state of New York was concerned, Harper Collins had died in a gas explosion caused by a faulty stove.

And then I saw him.

Maximilian Hart stood under a black umbrella, flanked by security. He wasn't crying. He wasn't even looking at the grave. He was checking his watch. As the priest spoke, Max adjusted his cufflinks—a nervous tick, or maybe just boredom. When he looked up, his shoulders dropped. The tension left his frame.

He didn't look like a man mourning the woman he’d claimed to love for three years. He looked like a CEO who had just successfully closed a liability.

"He's relieved," I whispered, the realization turning the remaining ash in my heart into diamond-hard ice. "He's glad I'm dead."

My father’s hand covered mine. "We leave for the airfield in an hour. You're gone, Harper. You stay gone until you're ready."

"I'm not Harper anymore," I said, watching Max turn and walk away without a backward glance. "Harper was weak. She's in that box."

***

The clinic in the Swiss Alps was a fortress of glass and white stone, surrounded by silence and snow. It was beautiful, sterile, and agonizing.

"Extend the arm, please. Just a little further."

I glared at the man sitting on the stool in front of me. Dr. Brayden Cole. He was too young to be the head of trauma rehabilitation, with messy brown hair and eyes that were an unsettling shade of hazel. He looked more like a grad student than a doctor, but his hands were steady and calloused.

"I can't," I snapped, pulling my arm back against his gentle grip. The skin on my forearm was tight, the scar tissue an unyielding map of the night I lost everything.

"You can," Brayden said. His voice wasn't demanding, just factual. " The skin needs to stretch, or you'll lose the range of motion permanently."

"It hurts."

"I know." He didn't offer pity. I hated pity. "Pain is information, Harper. It tells you you're still alive. It tells you what needs to heal."

I looked away, staring out at the jagged peaks of the mountains. "Maybe I don't want to heal. Maybe I just want to forget."

Brayden stopped. He waited until I looked back at him. "Forgetting doesn't fix the damage. It just lets the scar tissue harden until you can't move at all. Is that what you want? To be frozen like this forever?"

I thought of the newspaper headline. The baby I lost. Max’s relieved face at my funeral. The fire. The gas.

"No," I said, my voice trembling with a different kind of heat. "I want to move. I want to move so I can go back."

Brayden nodded slowly. He took my wrist again, his touch firm but anchoring. "Then let's use that. Don't fight the pain. Use it as fuel. Every inch you gain is a weapon you're forging."

I looked at my scarred arm, then at his intent, patient face. For the first time in months, I didn't see a threat. I saw an ally.

"Again," I said, gritting my teeth. "Push it further."