My Husband Made Me Carry His Mistress’s Baby

The Hamptons in winter was a graveyard of gray skies and shuttered mansions, a stark contrast to the summer playground of the elite. As Jaxson’s black SUV tore down the highway, the bare trees blurred into skeletal fingers clawing at the windows. He called it a "babymoon," a retreat for my health. I knew it for what it was: a transfer to a maximum-security prison.

"Stop fidgeting," Jaxson snapped, his knuckles white on the leather steering wheel. "You’re making me anxious."

I pressed my forehead against the cold glass, ignoring him. My back still throbbed where his shoe had connected with my spine a week ago, a dull, rhythmic reminder of my new reality. We were miles from the nearest neighbor, isolated by acres of frozen lawn and high stone walls.

I glanced into the side mirror, watching the road stretch out behind us. A matte black Range Rover was trailing us, keeping a steady, predatory distance. It had been there since we left the city limits. My heart kicked against my ribs. I knew that car. I knew the aggressive, silent way it moved.

*Marcellus.*

He didn't speed up. He didn't try to pass. He just lingered, a dark shadow in the mist. As we turned onto the private road leading to the Burke winter estate, the Rover flashed its high beams once—a blink, a signal—before peeling off onto a side road. The breath I had been holding rushed out of me. I wasn't forgotten.

The estate loomed ahead, a sprawling gothic monstrosity of dark stone and iron gates. As we pulled into the circular drive, the sense of dread was physical, a heavy weight settling in my stomach.

Inside, the house was freezing. The heating system rattled in the walls, fighting a losing battle against the draft. I headed for the stairs, intending to lock myself in the guest room, but Isabela’s voice drifted down from the second floor.

"Nina! Come see!"

I found her in the master bedroom. Or what used to be the master bedroom. The heavy mahogany furniture was gone, replaced by cribs, changing tables, and an explosion of pastel yellow. The smell of fresh paint was dizzying, chemical and sharp.

Isabela sat in her wheelchair in the center of the room, holding up a tiny cashmere onesie. She stroked the fabric with a reverence that made my skin crawl.

"Isn't it precious?" she cooed, her eyes locking onto my stomach. "Jaxson and I picked it out for *our* son."

I leaned against the doorframe, my hand instinctively covering my womb. "You're delusional, Isabela. You think you can play house after what you've done?"

She dropped the onesie. The sweetness evaporated from her face, replaced by a cold, hard stare. "This isn't playing, sweetie. This is the endgame. Once you pop this brat out, your utility expires. You think Jaxson is keeping you around for your sparkling personality?"

She wheeled closer, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "You're going to the curb, Nina. Or maybe the morgue. Childbirth is so... risky these days."

A chill that had nothing to do with the draft swept through me. I turned and walked away, her laughter chasing me down the hall.

That evening, dinner was a silent affair served by a skeleton staff who refused to meet my eyes. Beside my plate sat my nightly ritual: three prenatal vitamins and a glass of water. I reached for the large white pill, but something stopped me. The texture was wrong. Usually smooth, the surface felt gritty.

I brought it closer to my face. A fine, white powder coated the pill, clinging to the casing like frost. It wasn't dust. It was deliberate.

My pulse hammered in my ears. They weren't waiting for the birth. They were accelerating the timeline. Maybe to induce labor. Maybe to stop my heart.

Jaxson was watching me over the rim of his wine glass, his eyes dark and unreadable. "Take your medicine, Nina. For the baby."

I placed the pill on my tongue, feigning a swallow, and took a large gulp of water. I maneuvered the pill into the pocket of my cheek, praying it wouldn't dissolve before I could spit it out. "Delicious," I murmured.

Suddenly, Jaxson dropped his fork. The clatter echoed in the cavernous dining room. He gripped the edge of the table, his face draining of color as a sheen of sweat erupted on his forehead. He doubled over, a guttural groan tearing from his throat.

"The burning," he gasped, clutching his stomach. "It's... it's tearing me apart."

His gastritis. The stress and the rich food Isabela had been feeding him were taking their toll.

"The broth," he wheezed, looking at me with desperate, watery eyes. "Make the broth, Nina. The ginger and bone marrow. Please."

For three years, I had spent hours simmering that broth, skimming the fat, tending to him like a nurse. I looked at the man who had kicked me while I was down. I felt the pill burning against my cheek.

I stood up, smoothing the napkin on the table. "No."

Jaxson blinked, the pain momentarily eclipsed by shock. "What?"

"I'm not your maid, Jaxson. And I'm certainly not your wife anymore." I gestured toward the hallway where Isabela was undoubtedly listening. "Ask your mistress to cook for you. She's the one poisoning you with grease anyway."

I turned to leave. I didn't see him move. I only heard the scrape of the chair and the rush of air before his hand connected with my face.

The slap was open-handed but heavy, snapping my head to the side. I stumbled, catching myself on the sideboard. My cheek burned, throbbing in time with my heart.

"You ungrateful bitch," Jaxson hissed, swaying on his feet, clutching his stomach with one hand and pointing a trembling finger at me with the other. "You do what you're told. You are nothing without me."

I tasted blood—metallic and hot. I spat the dissolving pill onto the polished floor, right at his feet.

"I'd rather be nothing," I said, my voice shaking with a rage that finally outweighed the fear, "than be anything like you."