Pregnant Wife's Justice

Sienna's birthday party was my perfect opportunity. While the house filled with the elite of the city—champagne flowing, laughter echoing through the marble halls—I slipped away from the celebration with practiced ease.

"Are you feeling alright, darling?" Jameson had asked earlier, his hand possessively resting on my lower back, his concern so convincing I almost believed it myself.

"Just tired," I'd replied, one hand cradling my seven-month belly. "The baby's been kicking all day. I might rest upstairs for a bit."

His kiss on my forehead felt like acid. "Of course. Don't push yourself."

Now, as I made my way to his private office, I heard Sienna's high-pitched laugh carrying up the stairwell—the same laugh I'd heard on my wedding day as she'd clung to Jameson's arm, congratulating us with venom-laced sweetness. My hand instinctively moved to protect my unborn child, as if Sienna's voice alone could hurt us.

Jameson's office door yielded to the duplicate key I'd had made weeks ago. Inside, the space smelled of his cologne and power—leather, sandalwood, and secrets. I locked the door behind me and moved quickly to his computer.

"I'm in," I whispered into the small device clipped to my collar.

Charlie's voice came through my earpiece, steady and reassuring. "Good. You have approximately twelve minutes before the toast. Insert the drive now."

My fingers trembled slightly as I slid the innocent-looking USB drive into the port. The screen flickered as Charlie's custom malware began its work—invisible, untraceable, but giving us complete remote access to everything Jameson had ever tried to hide.

"It's uploading," I confirmed, my heart hammering against my ribs.

While the program worked, I turned my attention to the filing cabinet behind his desk. The lock was more challenging, but the skills Charlie's investigator had taught me proved sufficient. Inside, I found what we'd been looking for—folders labeled with offshore account numbers, medical records, and a thick file with my father's name.

My hands shook as I photographed page after page—evidence of payments to Dr. Reed, falsified medical assessments, emails discussing my father's transplant denial. Each flash of the camera captured another piece of the puzzle, another nail in Jameson's coffin.

Then I saw it—a manila folder labeled simply "S.W."

Sienna Williams.

I flipped it open, and my breath caught. Photos of them together—intimate, secretive moments captured over years. Receipts for jewelry, property deeds, financial arrangements. And most damning of all, a detailed timeline stretching back to before my mother's accident, with coldly calculated notes about "removing obstacles" and "securing assets."

"Elle, you need to wrap it up," Charlie warned in my ear. "People are gathering for the toast."

I quickly photographed the remaining documents, my mind racing to process what I'd discovered. As I carefully returned everything to its place, a wave of nausea hit me—not from the pregnancy, but from the sheer magnitude of Jameson's betrayal.

"Drive's complete," Charlie confirmed. "Get out of there."

I removed the USB, locked the cabinet, and made sure the office looked untouched. As I slipped back into the hallway, I heard Jameson's voice from downstairs, beginning his toast to Sienna.

"To the most extraordinary woman I've ever known," he was saying, his voice carrying up the stairwell. "Your birthday reminds us all how fortunate we are to have you in our lives."

The crowd applauded as I made my way to our bedroom, bile rising in my throat. I'd just settled onto the bed, arranging myself to look appropriately exhausted, when my phone rang.

The caller ID showed Charlie's number. "It's done," I said quietly.

"Elle, we've got everything we need," Charlie replied, his voice tight with controlled anger. "The things he's done... it's worse than we thought."

A strange calm settled over me. "Good. Then we're ready for the next step."

Three days later, everything changed. I was in the kitchen, reviewing the evidence Charlie and I had compiled, when the front door burst open. Four police officers stormed in, followed by Jameson, his face a mask of righteous fury.

"That's her," he said coldly, pointing at me. "My wife, who apparently couldn't stand to see Sienna happy. Who threatened her repeatedly."

"Mrs. King," one officer stepped forward, "you're under arrest for the kidnapping of Robert and Margaret Williams."

"What?" I stared in disbelief. "Kidnapping? Whose parents?"

"Sienna Williams' parents," the officer replied, pulling out handcuffs. "They disappeared last night. Ms. Williams received a threatening note she believes came from you."

As they read me my rights, I looked at Jameson. His eyes were cold, calculating, watching me with detached interest as officers placed handcuffs around my wrists. In that moment, I understood—this was his countermove, his way of neutralizing me before I could use what I'd discovered.

"Jameson," I whispered, "I'm seven months pregnant."

He stepped forward, touching my cheek with false tenderness. "I'll take care of everything, darling. Just cooperate with the officers."

As they led me away, past shocked neighbors and smartphone cameras, I felt my baby kick violently inside me. One thought kept me from collapsing: Charlie had the evidence. And Jameson had just made his final mistake.