The Nanny Had His Baby, Then He Broke Me

I frowned hard.

I've always despised people who don't know their place—no sense of boundaries, no respect for the line. I was ready to fire her on the spot.

But she dropped to her knees in front of me, sobbing.

"I know I was wrong, Mrs. Weiss, please don't fire me. My mother's still in the hospital waiting for me to send money back."

And right at that moment, the door was shoved open and a figure barged in.

Mick pulled her to her feet with a frown, then turned a cold look on me.

"Desiree, you've always been generous about everything. So why is it that the moment Tilly's involved, you turn cruel?"

"It's nothing. Don't be so petty over every little thing."

With Mick shielding her, Tilda only got bolder.

Until the day she flung a pregnancy test showing two lines and a paternity report right in my face.

"Desiree Gilbert, I'm pregnant."

"It's your husband's baby."

"I'd advise you not to try throwing me out again. Otherwise, the one who ends up suffering will be you."

I exploded that same day and demanded a divorce.

He stared at me with a crease between his brows. "Fine. And why exactly do you want a divorce? Can you stop being unreasonable?"

"You got the nanny pregnant and you're calling me unreasonable?"

Then Tilda rushed out and fell to her knees in front of me, crying.

"Don't blame him—it was all me. I took one of his used condoms from the trash and did it behind his back. I just… I only wanted a baby of my own."

I laughed, cold with fury. "Do you two actually think I'm stupid?"

But that same day, Mick produced surveillance footage to prove his innocence.

He knelt in front of me, begging me to forgive him, even swearing he'd fire Tilda—and against every instinct, I softened.

I had one condition. "Get rid of the baby."

He agreed to my face and told me he'd already taken her to the hospital for the procedure—but behind my back, he'd hidden her in a villa.

A few days later, Mick claimed he'd gone bankrupt and been sent to prison. Overnight, the sky fell.

I sold the property and moved into a damp basement. There was nothing else left to do.

Hiding from the debt collectors, I couldn't sleep through the night.

They eventually found my basement. A group of them stormed in with clubs and beat me.

Two of my ribs were broken. My wrist was shattered. I could never pick up a brush again.

It took me longer than I can say to force myself to accept it.

I gave up everything, just to stay alive.

And now I'm told all of it was fake.

For two whole years, Mick had been out there wrapped around another woman, warm and tender, enjoying every comfort of family—while I ran in circles like a fool believing every lie.

Right then, my phone buzzed.

A message from Mick.

"Desiree, I'm getting released in three days. Don't forget to come pick me up."

I gripped the phone and stared at the screen for a long time, blank.

In the two years since Mick went to prison, he was allowed to check his phone once a week. That was our only window to talk.

Last time, he'd told me he was being sentenced to ten years. Told me to sit tight and wait for him.

That was before the brain cancer diagnosis.

I'd thought, in despair: Mick, I won't live long enough to see the day you get out.

Maybe his conscience finally stirred. Or maybe he'd had enough of the act.

Either way, he'd decided to end the lie.

"Okay. I'll come pick you up."

What I never could have imagined was that the moment Mick saw me that day, he shoved me into a car and headed straight for the hospital.

I stared at this Mick I didn't recognize, at the panic written all over his face, and asked quietly.

"Why are we going to the hospital?"

"Til—a friend of mine was in a car accident. She needs an emergency transfusion and your blood type is a match. Desiree, you'll help—won't you."