My Husband Forced Me to Carry His Mistress’s Child

The steady beep of the heart monitor was the only sound in my mother's hospital room. I clutched her frail hand, watching her chest rise and fall with each labored breath. The kidney disease had ravaged her once-vibrant body, leaving behind this hollow shell connected to machines that cost more than our monthly mortgage.

"Mrs. Miller needs the transplant soon," Dr. Chen had told me yesterday. "Her body is rejecting the dialysis now."

I squeezed her hand tighter. "Hang in there, Mom. The donor match is coming soon."

My phone buzzed against my hip. I almost ignored it—another call from the search team looking for Nikolai would only bring more disappointment—but something made me glance at the screen.

"Mrs. Harris?" The voice on the other end was unfamiliar. "This is Captain Reynolds from the Coast Guard."

I straightened, my heart suddenly pounding. "Yes?"

"We've found your husband. He's alive."

The world tilted sideways. Alive. After three months of searching, after the yacht debris they'd found floating in the Pacific, after the memorial service I'd planned but couldn't bear to hold.

"Where is he? When can I see him?" My voice sounded strange to my own ears.

"He's being flown to the private airfield now. He asked for you specifically."

I kissed my mother's forehead and whispered, "Nikolai's alive!" before racing from the room. The elevator couldn't descend fast enough. My hands trembled as I texted the nurse watching Mom: "Emergency. Back soon."

The drive to the airfield passed in a blur of red lights and honking horns as I weaved through traffic. Nikolai was alive. My husband. My love. The man I'd nearly given up hope of ever seeing again.

The small private terminal bustled with activity when I arrived. Security recognized me immediately—the Harris name opened doors everywhere in Seattle—and escorted me to the tarmac where Nikolai's Gulfstream was taxiing to a stop.

I stood frozen as the door opened and the staircase descended. My husband appeared in the doorway, thinner than I remembered, his face tanned by months under a tropical sun. But alive. Gloriously, miraculously alive.

"Nikolai!" I screamed, starting forward.

He smiled—that same crooked smile that had made me fall for him in law school—but something in his eyes made me falter.

"Adeline." His voice carried across the distance between us.

I closed the gap in seconds, arms outstretched to embrace him. But as I reached him, he turned slightly, extending his hand back toward the plane.

"Careful," he murmured, not to me but to someone behind him.

A woman appeared in the doorway, one hand resting protectively over her swollen belly. She moved slowly down the stairs, each step careful and deliberate.

"This is Sage Brooks," Nikolai said as I stood frozen beside him. "She saved my life."

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Two weeks later, the Harris estate glowed with warmth as staff prepared a welcome dinner for Nikolai's homecoming. I'd spent days planning every detail—his favorite foods, the wines he loved, even fresh flowers in every room.