After Miscarriage: Husband's Affair

The pain came in waves, each one stronger than the last. I clutched my abdomen, feeling something warm and wet between my legs as I stumbled toward the bathroom of our penthouse. The world tilted sideways as I collapsed against the cold marble floor.

"Hello? 911? I need an ambulance," I gasped into my phone, my voice barely recognizable through the tears. "I'm pregnant... seven months... I think I'm losing my baby."

The paramedics found me there, curled around my belly as if I could physically hold my child inside me. Their faces were kind but professional as they lifted me onto a stretcher. The sirens wailed through the night as we raced to Harper Memorial Hospital—ironically named after my family's foundation.

"Ma'am, we need to contact your next of kin," the paramedic said, her eyes concerned above her mask.

"My husband," I whispered, fumbling for my phone. "Caspian Stewart."

I dialed his number, praying he would answer despite the late hour. The call went straight to voicemail.

"Caspian," I choked out, "I'm being taken to the hospital. Something's wrong with the baby. Please... call me back."

The doctor's words blurred together as they wheeled me through sterile corridors. "Significant blood loss"... "trying to stabilize"... "prepare for surgery." I caught fragments of their urgent conversation, but all I could think about was Caspian's smiling face when we first saw our baby's ultrasound. "We're going to be parents," he had whispered, kissing my still-flat stomach.

Where was he now?

The surgery was a blur of bright lights and masked faces. When I woke, a nurse with kind eyes held my hand. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Stewart," she said softly. "We couldn't save the baby."

The emptiness that followed was unlike anything I'd ever experienced. Not just the physical hollow where my child had been, but the absence of the future I'd imagined. The nursery we'd painted together. The little shoes I'd hidden in my drawer.

Hour after hour passed. Nurses came and went. I stared at the ceiling, too numb to cry anymore. I called Caspian again. And again. Each time, the same cheerful voicemail greeting.

"Mrs. Stewart," a nurse said gently around noon, "is there someone else we can call for you?"

"He's at a meditation retreat," I explained, my voice hollow. "Three days of silence. No phones allowed."

She squeezed my hand, her eyes reflecting pity.

It was nearly midnight when the door to my hospital room finally opened. Caspian stood there, his tall frame silhouetted against the hallway light. For one brief moment, relief flooded through me.

"Caspian," I whispered, reaching for him.

He moved to my bedside, his expression unreadable in the dim light. "Presley," he said, his voice oddly detached. "I came as soon as I could."

"You missed thirteen calls," I said, my voice breaking. "Our baby died, Caspian."

He nodded, as if I'd told him it might rain tomorrow. "I know. The hospital called the retreat center."

"And you didn't come right away?" The