She Stole My Husband So I'm Going to Steal Hers

Everything was perfect. The candles were flickering gently on the dinner table, casting a warm glow over the room. A bottle of Rozen's favorite wine sat on ice, and a soft tune hummed in the background. But all that mattered was the small box hidden in my purse—the pregnancy test I’d been waiting for months to show him. Finally, after three long years of trying, I was pregnant. And tonight, on his birthday, I was going to surprise him with the news that would change our lives.

Except… Rozen wasn’t home.

I checked the time—two hours late. I had called him twice, left a message, and still nothing. Normally, I would brush it off, convincing myself he was caught up in mafia business. It wasn’t unusual for him to disappear into meetings, but tonight was different. Tonight was supposed to be special.

I sighed, trying to shake off the growing anxiety in my chest. To distract myself, I opened Instagram and began mindlessly scrolling through the posts, pretending everything was fine.

That’s when I saw it.

Thalia. Her face filled my screen, smiling that self-satisfied grin I’d always hated. She was standing with her hand placed tenderly on her stomach, her caption loud and proud: "Grateful to my baby’s father. Couldn’t have done it without you!"

My heart stopped. Baby’s father?

I sat up straighter, eyes locked on the photo. I zoomed in, inspecting every detail. Thalia, glowing with pride, looked radiant in her maternity dress. Her other hand held the hand of a man… a man whose hand looked all too familiar.

It was Rozen’s. I knew that hand like the back of my own—his distinct scar across the knuckle from a knife fight years ago was unmistakable. I felt my stomach twist into a painful knot. He hadn’t been mentioned directly in the post, but I didn’t need his name to be spelled out for me. The hand in the photo confirmed everything. Rozen had done it. He had helped Thalia, his ex-girlfriend, get pregnant. Who knows if it’s just a sperm donation or they had sex?

My breath quickened, and a dull ringing filled my ears as I clicked on the comment box under Thalia’s post. My heart felt like it was splitting in two, and the pain of it made me reckless. Without thinking, I typed: "Wow! Good for you!"

I bit my lip, forcing myself to breathe slowly, but it was no use. The walls of the dining room seemed to close in on me, and the candles—once beautiful and warm—now cast eerie, flickering shadows that made me feel even more trapped.

Without thinking, I redialed Rozen’s number. The ringing echoed in my ears—once, twice. Each second dragged on like an eternity, my anger bubbling beneath the surface, ready to spill over.

On the third ring, he finally picked up.

“Chloe,” Rozen muttered, his voice sharp with frustration. “I’m in the middle of something—"

“When are you coming home?” I cut him off, my words trembling as I tried to keep my voice steady.

There was a pause, but just before he responded, I heard something—a faint voice, a woman's voice, murmuring something in the background. My heart stuttered.

“I’ll be home soon. We’ll talk then,” he said quickly. And then, without warning, the line went dead. He’d hung up on me.

I glanced at the dinner table, the untouched meal, the wine slowly warming in the ice bucket, and the candles burning lower than ever. The entire night felt like a mockery of the life I thought we were building.

Frustration bubbled up inside me, and before I knew it, I was moving, grabbing the nearest candle off the table and throwing it across the room. It hit the wall, the wax splattering against the paint as the flame flickered out. But it wasn’t enough. I grabbed another, then another, hurling them without care.

Suddenly, a flicker of flame caught on the tablecloth, the fire spreading faster than I could react. I froze, watching in horror as the fabric ignited, the flames licking at the edge of the table. Panic surged through me, and I stumbled backward, grabbing a pitcher of water from the counter and dousing the flames. The fire hissed and sputtered, smoke curling up toward the ceiling, the acrid smell filling the room.

My heart pounded in my chest as I stood there, panting, the smoke making my eyes water.

A sharp pain shot through my abdomen, and I winced, clutching my stomach. The stress, the anger… it was all too much. My little surprise—our baby—was still inside me, waiting for the moment I had been so desperate to share. But now? How could I possibly bring this child into a world where its father couldn’t even be honest with me?