She Chose the Baby. He Chose His Mistress.

“Drake,” I whispered into the receiver, voice trembling, “I’m saying yes. I’ll marry you. Please… come and get me.”

There was silence—then his familiar, smooth drawl, laced with sarcasm. “Really now? The woman who once told me she’d never say those words? What changed? Don’t tell me your perfect husband finally showed his true colors.”

I swallowed hard, the ache in my chest cutting deep. “He did,” I said flatly. “I’m filing for divorce.”

A low, humorless chuckle came through the line. “About time. End whatever tie you have with him—I’m claiming what’s mine now.” He paused for a beat. “Five days. I’ll come for you then.”

The call ended with a soft click, leaving me staring at the silent phone. My hands were trembling, my thoughts spinning between grief, anger, and an unsettling sense of relief. I didn’t give myself time to hesitate—I dialed my lawyer next.

“I want to file for divorce,” I said, the words sharp and certain.

There was a sigh on the other end. “Serena, your family has strict conditions. You can’t initiate a divorce unless we can present evidence—proof of adultery, abuse, or neglect. You know the clause in your marriage contract.”

“I’ll find proof,” I replied without hesitation. “Just… don’t tell my family until it’s done.”

“Understood. Stay careful, Serena.”

The line went dead, and I was left in a room that felt far too quiet. No visitors. No flowers. Not even a call from my mother. They all knew where I was—and still, no one came.

The next morning, I made the mistake of checking my phone. The first thing I saw was Camille’s social media post. A wall of pastel baby clothes, stuffed toys, and a caption full of hearts and lullaby emojis.

But what shattered me wasn’t the post—it was the background.

It was my bedroom.

They had turned my room into a nursery. Without telling me. Without asking.

My vision blurred, and my chest seized up. My breaths came out shallow and quick—I could barely reach the emergency button before the room started spinning.

Voices surrounded me—doctors shouting, nurses rushing. I caught fragments of their words, each one sharper than the last.

“She’s hyperventilating.”

“BP dropping.”

“Her body can’t take much more stress.”

Then came the one sentence that made my blood run cold.

“We may have to terminate the pregnancy.”

“No!” My scream ripped from my throat. “Please, don’t! Don’t take my baby—save us both, please!”

The doctor’s expression was tight, professional. “We’ll try our best, but for the alternate treatment, we’ll need your husband’s written consent.”

My stomach sank. I didn’t want to call him—but I had no other choice.

He picked up after a few rings, voice clipped. “What now?”

My words came out in sobs. “They need your approval to start treatment. I—I don’t want to lose the baby. Please.”

A long pause. Then his tone turned cold and sharp. “Save the baby. That’s my heir. I don’t care what happens to Serena. Just make sure the child survives—or I’ll sue the hospital.”

Then the line went dead.

The world faded with it.

When I woke again, the room was quiet—too quiet. My body felt hollow. I already knew before anyone said it.

The nurse’s eyes said everything.

“No…” My voice cracked. “No, no, no—”

But the baby was gone.

The tears came soundlessly, breaking something deep inside me that words couldn’t touch.

Then I heard shouting in the hallway.

“You should’ve saved the baby!” Richard’s voice was raw with rage. “Why the hell is she still alive? That baby was mine!”

“The decision was made based on survival odds,” the doctor replied firmly. “Someone came earlier claiming to be her husband and signed the consent form. It was the only life we could save.”

“What are you talking about? I’m her husband!” Richard barked. “Who was that man?”

“He had valid identification and matching authorization,” the doctor said calmly. “We confirmed before proceeding.”

Moments later, the door burst open. Richard’s face was red, his eyes blazing. “Who was it, Serena? Are you cheating on me now?”

My heart raced. “What? No! I don’t even know who he was—maybe someone who wanted to help—”

“If I ever find out you’re lying,” he snarled, jabbing a finger toward me, “I’ll kill you. You’re not leaving me.”

I stared at him, hollow and numb. “Why? Why keep me? The baby’s gone. There’s nothing left.”

His voice turned low, dangerous. “You’re still mine.”

Then he stormed out, leaving the door swinging behind him.

Two days later, they discharged me. I felt like a ghost, every step heavy with loss.

And there they were—Richard and Camille—standing by the car, talking like nothing had happened. I froze just in time to hear her whisper, venom dripping from every word, “She should’ve died.”

Richard shrugged casually. “It’s fine. I’ll handle her during the anniversary party. Maybe push her off the building—perfect timing for the merger celebration.”

My blood turned to ice.

They stopped when they noticed me. Camille rushed over, feigning concern. “Serena! You’re finally out—we were so worried.”

I said nothing. I just got in the car.

During the drive, their flirtations filled the silence—his hand brushing her leg, her laughter echoing like nails against glass. I sat in the backseat, gripping my phone.

I typed a message to Drake: Thank you for saving me. I’ll be ready before the anniversary. Please come.

His reply came instantly: I’ll be there. And this time, I won’t let you go.

The glow of the screen caught Richard’s eye. “Who are you texting?”

I quickly deleted the thread. “No one.”

He grabbed my phone and scrolled furiously before tossing it out the window. “Don’t ever ignore me when I’m talking.”

I shifted my eyes toward the window, saying nothing.

None of it mattered now.

In just a few days, I’d be gone—and this time, it would be for good.