After My Husband Chose His Mistress Over Our Baby

The rain lashed against the floor-to-ceiling windows of our Manhattan penthouse, blurring the city lights into streaks of weeping gold. I smoothed the fabric of my dress, my fingers trembling slightly. On the marble kitchen island, the Beef Wellington—Spencer’s favorite—sat cooling, a centerpiece for a celebration that felt fragile even before it began.

I touched the velvet box in my pocket. Inside lay the positive test, a plastic stick that had turned my world into something terrifying and beautiful. A baby. A chance to fix the cracks in the foundation of our marriage.

The front door clicked open. My breath hitched.

Spencer strode in, shedding his soaked trench coat without looking at me. He didn't offer a greeting, just the sharp scent of ozone and something cloyingly floral. *Her* perfume. It clung to him like a second skin, a silent declaration of where he’d been.

"You're late," I said, my voice softer than I intended. "I made dinner."

He loosened his tie, his eyes sliding over me with the disinterest one might show a piece of furniture. "I ate."

He walked past the dining table to the liquor cabinet, pouring a amber measure of scotch. The crystal clinked, a harsh sound in the quiet room.

"Spencer, please." I stepped closer, the velvet box burning a hole in my pocket. "I have news. Important news."

He took a sip, turning to face me. His handsome face was a mask of boredom. "Go on, then. Make it quick."

I pulled the box out, my hands shaking as I opened it. "I'm pregnant."

The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. I waited for a widening of the eyes, a smile, even a flicker of shock. Instead, Spencer threw his head back and laughed. It was a cold, dry sound that scraped against my nerves.

"Pregnant?" He swirled the liquid in his glass, staring at the vortex. "Well, that’s an inconvenient complication."

My stomach dropped. "Inconvenient? This is our child."

"It’s *your* child, Gracelyn." He took a long drink, his gaze hardening. "I was going to wait until the weekend, but since you’re pressing me... I’ve realized something. I finally understand what love is. Real, visceral love."

Hope flickered, foolish and desperate, before he snuffed it out.

"It’s Tiffany," he said, saying her name like a prayer. "Not you. Never you."

***

Two days later, the Met Gala was a cacophony of camera shutters and forced laughter. Spencer had insisted we attend to "maintain appearances," yet there she was. Tiffany Kelly. She glided through the crowd in crimson silk, a stark contrast to my pale, trembling form.

Spencer held my elbow, his grip bruising, steering me through the sea of socialites. But his eyes never left Tiffany, who was laughing with a group of investors a few feet away.

"Smile," he hissed in my ear. "You look like a funeral attendee."

A waiter passed with a tray of intricate canapés. Nauseous from the stress and the pregnancy, I took one, desperate for something to settle