Pregnant and Playing Santa for My Husband's Mistress

"She’s awake! Quick, call the doctor!" A familiar voice cut through the fog in my mind.

I blinked against the harsh hospital lights, my vision slowly adjusting only to see Percy.

He looked exhausted and haggard, and his usual sharp features dulled by fatigue.

His voice was rough and hoarse as he said, "Brielle, you’re finally awake."

But I didn’t want to see him. Didn’t want to hear his voice.

I turned my head away. My gaze landed on the medical chart hanging beside my bed.

And that’s when I saw it.

[Patient’s arms necrotic. Fetal heartbeat ceased.]

For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. Then, the reality of it slammed into me.

My arms were gone. My baby was gone.

And it was all because of him.

My vision blurred as rage and grief ripped through me.

"Percy, do I owe you something? What did I do to deserve this?" My voice was shaky, raw.

He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something like he actually had an excuse for this.

But all that came out was a quiet, pathetic. "I’m sorry, Brielle."

I let out a sharp, bitter laugh. 'Sorry? Now? What the hell was the point of being sorry now?'

"Percy, let’s get a divorce," I coldly replied.

Panic flickered in his eyes. For the first time, he actually looked scared. He grabbed my hand—or at least, the lifeless limb that remained.

"This was my fault," he admitted, his voice breaking. "I’m sorry. I swear, I—"

I tried to move my fingers.

Nothing. No feeling. No movement. It's just dead weight.

"Do you think an apology is enough to fix this?" My voice was dangerously quiet. "My baby is dead, Percy!"

At the mention of the baby, a shadow of guilt crossed his face.

He hesitated, his words faltering. "But… but Gianna said half an hour in the cold wouldn’t be a problem."

I felt my entire body go still. 'Gianna. Of course....'

Of course, she had something to do with this.

He kept talking, his words digging deeper into my already shattered heart.

"In Russia, newborns are given ice baths after birth, and they’re fine," he added as if that was some kind of defense.

Then, his expression softened like he was trying to comfort me.

"Besides," he said almost gently, "we’re still young. We can always have another—"

I yelled, "Enough!"

I didn’t want to hear it. I didn’t want to hear her name. I didn’t want to hear about his justifications, excuses, or empty reassurances. I didn’t want to hear another word out of his damn mouth.

Right then, I forced myself to look at him, meeting his gaze head-on.

"I said I want a divorce," I repeated, each word sharp as a blade. "Do you not understand human language?"

For the first time since I’d known him, Percy looked speechless.

He froze, stunned.

Then, his carefully controlled temper finally cracked.

"Brielle, do you really think anyone else would want you after this?" His voice turned cold, cruel. "If it weren’t for the fact that you had no family and looked so pitiful, I wouldn’t have even spared you a glance!"

A heavy silence fell between us.

Then, something clicked inside me.

I suddenly remembered.

The day Percy confessed to me. The way he had shown up at my door, his voice soft, his hands warm.

'I’ll take care of you. I’ll be your family now.'

I had believed him. I had trusted him. And the whole time, he had only pitied me. I was such a fool.

Without blood ties and obligations, I was never his family. I was nothing to him.

My lips curled into a mirthless smile.

"Who the hell do you think you are?" I said, my voice calm—too calm.

His jaw clenched. "You’ll regret this."

But I wasn’t listening anymore.

...

The day of the divorce, I didn’t even see him.

I had my lawyer handle everything. When the final paperwork was signed, I didn’t even take the divorce certificate with me. I had it thrown in the trash.

Just like our marriage. Just like everything I had ever given him.

A clean break, or so I thought.

I wasted no time transferring to hospitals. I wanted him gone from my life.

For good.

But even after the divorce, the messages kept coming:

[I’m sorry. I was too impulsive before.]

[Where are you? Let me come pick you up, okay?]

[I’m really worried about you.]

[Brielle, please, just reply to me.]