After My Husband Saved His Mistress Instead of Me

The storm arrived with a vengeance, battering our penthouse windows like a thousand angry fists. Rain lashed against the glass, and the wind howled through Manhattan's concrete canyons with an almost human cry. I clutched my swollen belly, feeling the first real contraction tear through me.

"Dakota," I gasped into the phone, "the baby's coming early."

His line went straight to voicemail again. I tried for the fifth time in twenty minutes, each attempt more desperate than the last.

"Dakota Scott's office, he's unavailable at this time. Please leave a message."

Where was he? The hurricane had trapped everyone indoors, the city paralyzed under nature's fury. Yet somehow, my husband—my protector, my savior—was unreachable when I needed him most.

Another contraction seized me, stronger than before. I doubled over, clutching the edge of our Italian marble countertop. The pain was unlike anything I'd ever experienced—primal and overwhelming.

"Please," I whispered to no one, "someone help me."

The contraction intensified, and I felt something warm trickle down my legs. Water breaking. Too early. Something was wrong.

With trembling fingers, I dialed 911.

"911, what's your emergency?"

"I'm pregnant—thirty-four weeks—and something's wrong. I'm alone."

The dispatcher's voice remained calm, but I heard the urgency beneath her words. "Can you get to your front door? We'll have paramedics there in five minutes."

I somehow made it downstairs, each step agony. The building's lobby was dark, emergency lights casting eerie shadows across the marble floors. Outside, sheets of rain obscured everything beyond a few feet.

"Ma'am, we need you to sign these forms," the paramedic said, his face grim as he helped me onto the stretcher. "Emergency C-section authorization."

"What? No, my husband—"

"Ma'am, we don't have time. The baby's in distress."

My hand shook so violently I could barely form my signature. Strangers surrounded me—kind strangers with worried eyes—but none of them were Dakota.

"Where's your husband?" one asked gently.

"I don't know," I whispered, tears mixing with rainwater on my face.

---

I woke to silence.

Not the storm's fury, not the paramedics' urgent voices—just sterile, hollow silence.

My body felt hollow too. Something vital had been scooped out of me.

"Mrs. Scott?" A nurse with tired eyes stood beside my bed. "I'm so sorry."

Four words. Just four simple words that shattered my world.

"Your daughter... she didn't make it."

I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. The room spun around me as I processed what "didn't make it" meant.

"She was too small, and there were complications with the umbilical cord," the doctor explained later. "We did everything we could."

But no one could bring her back. No one could fill the emptiness inside me.

My fingers automatically reached for my phone on the bedside table. Maybe Dakota had called. Maybe he was here somewhere, waiting to see me.

One message. From an unknown number.

I opened it, hoping against hope it was Dakota with some explanation.

Instead, my screen filled with a photo that turned my blood to ice.

Dakota. Asleep