Pregnant & Betrayed

The rehearsal had run late, as always. My body ached from the physical demands of the role—a woman rebuilding her life after trauma. The irony wasn't lost on me.

"You're doing brilliantly, Avery," the director said, his voice echoing in the empty studio. "The vulnerability you bring... it's raw. Real."

I nodded, gathering my things. "Thank you. I'll see you tomorrow."

The parking garage was eerily quiet at this hour. My footsteps echoed between concrete pillars as I fumbled for my keys. Something felt off—a prickling sensation at the back of my neck.

"Hello, sweetheart," a voice slurred from behind me. "Working late?"

I turned to find three men emerging from the shadows. Their eyes held that particular gleam of predators who had found their prey.

"I'm not interested," I said, backing away slowly. "I need to go."

"Oh, you're going nowhere," the tallest one said, stepping closer. "Someone paid us good money to make sure you understand your place."

My mind flashed to Bristol's face—her perfect features twisted with rage at the theater. This was her doing.

"Please," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "I don't want any trouble."

"Neither do we," the man replied, lunging forward.

I dodged his grasp, but the second man caught my arm, twisting it painfully behind my back.

"Stop!" I cried out, struggling against his grip.

A car door slammed somewhere in the darkness. Footsteps approached rapidly.

"Get your hands off her." The voice was low, dangerous—familiar.

The third man turned. "Mind your own business, buddy."

Marshall stepped into the dim light of the garage. His face was set in hard lines I'd never seen before.

"I said, let her go."

The men exchanged glances. "You want to play hero? Fine."

They released me, and I stumbled toward Marshall as the first attacker charged him.

What happened next seemed to unfold in slow motion. Marshall moved with lethal efficiency, his body a blur of controlled violence. The first man went down hard, clutching his stomach. The second tried to reach for something in his jacket.

"Knife!" I warned.

Marshall pivoted, but not fast enough. The blade caught his arm, tearing through his sleeve. Blood bloomed dark against the fabric.

With a grimace, he delivered a precise strike to the man's wrist, sending the knife clattering to the ground. The third attacker, seeing his companions defeated, backed away and ran.

"Are you crazy?" I shouted, rushing to Marshall's side as he leaned against a car, breathing hard. "You could have been killed!"

"Better me than you," he said simply, his face pale but determined.

---

My hands trembled as I cleaned the slash on Marshall's arm. The cut was deep but mercifully clean.

"Why are you here?" I demanded, pressing antiseptic against the wound. "How did you know?"

Marshall winced but didn't pull away. "I've been watching over you since you arrived in LA."

"Watching me? Like a stalker?" I wrapped gauze around his arm, perhaps tighter than necessary.

"Like someone who owes you a debt." His voice was quiet, strained. "Someone who made a terrible mistake."

I stepped back, crossing my arms. "What mistake? You mean divorcing me without explanation? Making me believe you didn't love me anymore?"

Marshall's shoulders slumped. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded document, worn at the creases from repeated handling.

"I was diagnosed with terminal cancer," he said, his voice breaking. "Six months to live, they said."

I stared at him, then at the paper. "What?"

"I didn't want to burden you with watching me die." He handed me the document. "I thought it would be kinder to let you go."

My hands shook as I unfolded the medical report. The date—three years ago, just before he'd suddenly changed toward me.

"You lied to me," I whispered. "You made me believe you didn't love me anymore."

"I did it to save you pain." His eyes were bright with unshed tears. "It was selfish and wrong, but I thought—"

"You thought you knew what was best for me?" My voice rose, the paper crumpling in my fist. "You took away my choice!"

Marshall nodded slowly. "Yes."

I paced the small apartment, the medical report clutched in my hand. The revelation was too much—after everything with Nolan, after losing the baby, after Bristol's attacks...

"I can't do this," I said finally, stopping at the window. "I can't process this right now."

"Avery—"

"Please go." I didn't turn around. "I need time."

Marshall was silent for a long moment. Then I heard him gather his things.

"I'm sorry," he said softly. "For everything."

The door closed behind him with a quiet click.

I sank to the floor, the medical report still in my hand, and wondered how much more truth I could bear.