When My Fiancé Sacrificed Our Baby to Save His Mistress

The wind off the Atlantic didn't just blow; it hunted. It tore through the Hamptons estate, stripping leaves from the oaks and slamming against the siding like a fist.

I shouldn't have been out there. I was three months pregnant, shivering in a soaking wet windbreaker, wrestling with a rusted storm shutter on the third-floor balcony. But when the staff had evacuated and Duke had complained about the noise, I’d volunteered. It was pathetic—a desperate bid to be useful, to buy five minutes of his time so I could finally tell him about the life growing inside me.

"Just lock the latch," I muttered through chattering teeth, my fingers numb and clumsy against the cold iron.

A sudden gust hit the house with the force of a wrecking ball. The floorboards beneath my boots groaned, a sickening, splintering sound that vibrated up my legs. I grabbed the railing, but the wood was rot-softened and slick with rain. With a crack like a gunshot, the support beam gave way.

The world tilted. I screamed, sliding toward the edge as the balcony collapsed into a jagged slope. My hands scrambled for purchase, finding only wet cedar shingles. I slammed against the remains of the railing, my legs dangling over a thirty-foot drop into the churning darkness of the courtyard.

"Duke!" I shrieked, the wind tearing the name from my throat. "Help!"

Floodlights snapped on below, blinding me. Through the rain, I saw figures in yellow slickers—emergency responders. And Duke.

He ran out onto the patio, his hair plastered to his forehead. He looked up, his eyes locking with mine. For a second, I saw terror there. I saw the man who had loved me.

"Duke, I'm slipping!" I cried, my grip on the wet wood failing. My abdominal muscles seized, a sharp cramp of warning.

Then the French doors behind him burst open. Bethany stumbled out, clutching her hand to her chest. "Duke! It hurts! I think I cut an artery!"

A tiny smear of red stained her fingertip. A paper cut. Maybe broken glass. Nothing more.

One of the EMTs looked up at me, pointing. "Sir, the woman on the roof is—"

"Focus on Bethany!" Duke roared, turning his back on me. He wrapped his arms around her, shielding her from the rain while I hung by my fingertips. "She has a condition! She can't clot! Treat her first!"

"But sir, the structure is unstable—"

"Do as I say!" Duke’s voice was hysterical, frantic. "Ignore the girl! Save my fiancée!"

The cold that rushed through me had nothing to do with the storm. I watched him usher Bethany inside, leaving me to the mercy of the wind. He didn't look back.

I didn't scream again. I saved my breath, curling inward to protect my stomach as the wood creaked ominously. It was the estate manager and a young paramedic who eventually hauled me through a window, shivering so violently my teeth clicked together like dice.

They wrapped me in thermal blankets and left me in the guest wing library to thaw. I sat in the dark, the adrenaline crash leaving me hollow. My hand brushed against the heavy wool coat someone had thrown over a chair nearby. Duke’s coat. It smelled of his cologne and expensive scotch.

I pulled it around me, seeking warmth from the man who had just left me to die, and felt the crinkle of paper in the inside pocket.

My fingers retrieved a folded sheet of Alexander Corp letterhead. The handwriting was jagged, rushed.

*Scarlett,*

*If you are reading this, I haven't been brave enough to say it. You need to run. Not just from the city, but from me. Bethany isn't what you think she is, and I am not the man you think I am. I can't protect you from her. I can't even protect myself. I am too weak to let her go, and she will destroy you to keep me. Please, for your own sake, disappear before the debt comes due.*

*—D*

The letter wasn't signed. It wasn't sent. It was just a monument to his cowardice, hidden in a pocket while he watched me nearly fall to my death.

He knew. He knew she was dangerous, he knew he was spineless, and he had chosen to sacrifice me anyway.

The door opened. I shoved the letter back into the pocket just as a nurse bustled in, followed by Bethany.

Bethany looked radiant for someone who had allegedly just suffered a medical emergency. A small bandage wrapped her index finger. She stopped when she saw me, her eyes drifting to the medical chart the nurse had left on the side table. I saw the moment she read the notes from my intake exam.

*Elevated hCG levels. Pregnancy confirmed.*

Her pupils dilated. The air in the room seemed to vanish. She looked at my stomach, then at my face, and a smile curled her lips—not triumphant, but terrifyingly serene.

"Leave us," Bethany told the nurse.

"Ms. Wheeler, you need rest—"

"I said get out!"

The nurse fled. Bethany walked toward me, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "A baby. How... quaint. You think that anchors him to you?"

"It's his child, Bethany."

"It's a mistake." She leaned down, her perfume cloying and sweet. "And mistakes get corrected."

Suddenly, she doubled over. A guttural scream ripped from her throat, loud enough to wake the dead. She collapsed to the floor, thrashing, knocking over a lamp.

"Duke!" she shrieked. "Duke, help me! It's rupturing!"

The doors flew open. Duke sprinted in, his face ashen. "Bethany?"

"My stomach!" She writhed, clutching her abdomen. "It feels like I'm bleeding inside! The doctor said—my rare type—I need a transfusion now or I'll die!"

Duke looked around wildly. "Get the medic! Get the helicopter!"

"There's no time!" Bethany gasped, grabbing Duke's lapel. Her eyes locked onto mine, cold and dead. "She... she has my blood type. I saw it... in her file. Duke... make her... make her give it to me."

Duke turned to me. The panic in his eyes hardened into resolve. He didn't see a pregnant woman. He didn't see the woman he loved. He saw a spare part.

"Scarlett," he said, his voice trembling but lethal. "Roll up your sleeve."