She Chose the Baby. He Chose His Mistress.

When I opened my eyes, all I saw was white—blinding, sterile, endless. For a moment, I thought I’d already crossed over.

Then the pain came—sharp and unrelenting—dragging me back to the world I thought I’d left behind.

It all began just a few days earlier.

“The cancer has advanced faster than we anticipated,” the doctor had said, her tone careful but heavy. “It’s highly aggressive, and the tumor is dangerously close to your uterus. Continuing the pregnancy could threaten not only your health but your baby’s survival as well.”

I’d sat frozen, staring past her shoulder at the blank white walls.

“You’re seven months along,” she continued, sliding a folder across the desk. “If we act now, we can start treatment immediately. But it’s your decision, Serena. Take some time to think.”

Time. As if I had any left.

My hands went to my stomach, feeling the faint flutter inside me—my baby, the only pure thing left in my collapsing world.

When I stepped out into the hall, the light was too bright. My fingers trembled as I pulled out my phone. Despite everything, I still called him.

Richard. My husband. The man who’d missed every appointment, ignored every late-night cry, every plea.

He picked up on the third ring. “Yeah?” His voice was clipped, impatient.

“Richard…” I could barely breathe. “The doctors found something. It’s bad. They said it could harm the baby. I need you here, please—we have to decide—”

“Decide what?” he cut in coldly. “If it’s between you and the baby, pick the baby. That’s a no-brainer. Handle it. I’m busy.”

The line went dead.

For a long time, I just stood there, phone pressed to my ear, listening to the hum of silence. Then a burst of laughter echoed from the end of the corridor. That voice—I knew it.

I followed it quietly, each step heavier than the last.

“She’s sick again?” Camille sneered. “Didn’t she use that excuse before?”

“She always does,” Richard muttered. “Probably read something online and decided she’s dying. If she actually is—good. Makes life easier for us.”

Camille giggled. “You’re not going back to her, right?”

“Of course not. The marriage was business. Once her family’s assets merge under my name, I’m gone. You’re the one I actually want.”

My stomach twisted.

“And if she finds out about the baby?” Camille asked softly.

He laughed. “Then we keep pretending. I’ll play the devoted husband until I get what I need. Not much longer now.”

A door opened beside them. I ducked back as a nurse stepped out.

“Three months along,” the doctor said cheerfully. “Everything looks perfect, Camille. Congratulations.”

My knees buckled. I stumbled toward a trash bin and vomited.

Camille. The girl my parents raised when they thought I was dead.

There had been a fire when I was little. My nanny took me and demanded ransom, but she died before anyone found me. I grew up lost in the system—until her daughter confessed years later, and I was finally brought home.

But home wasn’t mine anymore. My parents kept Camille. Said we could “share” the family. She smiled at me like a sister—while sleeping with my husband.

I left the hospital that night, walking into the cold air, one hand clutching my belly as if to protect what little I had left.

Then I heard it—a car engine, headlights cutting through the dark. Richard’s car.

“Richard?” I whispered, raising a trembling hand.

He didn’t stop.

Light. Metal. Pain.

My body hit the pavement. Blood filled my mouth.

Somewhere through the blur, I heard Camille scream, “Oh my god! I didn’t see her! Richard, she’s bleeding!”

“Don’t look,” Richard said calmly. “You’ll get sick. Let’s go.”

“What? We can’t just leave her—”

“She’s out cold,” he said flatly. “It’s a hospital. Someone will find her. We still need to buy baby clothes.”

Their voices faded.

And everything went dark.