Eight Months Pregnant: Living as the Police Chief's Secret

Eight months into my pregnancy, my husband finally makes time from his police duties to go to a prenatal checkup with me for the first time.

The moment we step into the hospital, his satellite-encrypted phone buzzes urgently. The caller ID flashes briefly, and just like that, the man who's always calm and collected panics.

"Honey, it's a red alert. Another international fugitive just crossed the border. I… I'm sorry…"

He's clearly anxious, yet his tone is firm, leaving no room for argument. After apologizing, he rushes off.

As I watch his SUV speed out of sight, my fist clenches tightly, crumpling the prenatal checkup sheet. I flag down a cab, slide into the car, and swiftly instruct the driver, "Follow that car. Don't lose it."

A Red Notice for a fugitive? What a joke.

My father, who works at the National Security Agency, barely catches wind of a notice like that. Yet, somehow, a mere police chief who only assists with cases is suddenly tasked with catching a high-priority criminal.

Fine, then. I can't wait to meet the superior who's given him such an urgent assignment.

As soon as the cab driver heard that I was trying to catch my cheating husband in the act, he floored the gas pedal.

My husband, Harvey Lowe, was on his way to see someone. I didn't know who the other person was, but I felt a crippling sense of anxiety.

To my surprise, after plenty of twists and turns through the streets, the cab eventually stopped in front of the police residential area, a villa compound.

I let out a sigh of relief. At least it wasn't some hotel.

The residential area was housing allocated to high-ranking officers at the precinct, and Harvey had a villa there too.

I had stayed here for a few months before I got pregnant the first time. I remembered that the neighbors had all been very polite and friendly.

Now, with just a glance from afar, I could see that the place was packed with luxury cars and lit up with bright decorations.

I blinked, puzzled. Was today some kind of special occasion?

I was ready to head in and take a look when a security guard stopped me at the gate. "This is a police residential area. No unauthorized visitors allowed."

I froze briefly, then explained with a smile, "I'm Mrs. Lowe; I'm married to the man who just went in."

Yet, the guard looked at me with disdain. "Excuse me? Everyone knows Ms. Bennett is Chief Lowe's wife. Didn't you think to do some research before posing as someone else?"

In an instant, I froze. The woman he had mentioned, Chelsea Bennett, was the living blood bank Harvey had arranged for me.

Snapping back to reality, I ignored the guard and rushed to the villa's entrance, despite being heavily pregnant.

When I reached the living room, I saw a dazzling array of elite guests—from high-ranking officials to socialites—mingling, their laughter echoing through the ornate