My Husband Took My Blood for His Mistress’s Baby

I push through the front door of our penthouse at seven-thirty, my heels clicking against the marble foyer. The familiar weight of my purse strap cuts into my shoulder. Another charity luncheon. Another afternoon of smiling until my cheeks ached while Manhattan socialites whispered about my empty womb.

The living room glows with warm lamplight. Savanna Morris sprawls across our white leather sofa like she owns it. Her silk robe — cream-colored, expensive — falls open at the thigh. Her bare feet rest on the glass coffee table, toes painted cherry red. She flips through a pregnancy magazine, the glossy pages catching the light.

"How to Prepare Your Nursery for Baby's Arrival," she reads aloud, voice dripping honey. "Isn't that exciting, Brynn?"

I freeze in the doorway. My husband stands at the bar cart, his back to me. His white dress shirt is rolled up at the sleeves. He pours warm milk into a crystal glass — the Waterford set my mother gave us for our wedding.

"Vance?" My voice comes out smaller than I intended.

He doesn't turn around. The milk steams in the glass.

"I was hoping we could talk," I say. "Privately."

Savanna's laugh tinkles like breaking glass. "He's busy taking care of his real family." She pats her rounded belly, still hidden under the loose robe but unmistakably there. "Isn't that right, baby?"

Vance carries the milk to her. His fingers brush hers as she takes the glass. He sits on the sofa's edge, his hand resting on her knee.

I wait for him to correct her. To say something. Anything.

The silence stretches like a wire about to snap.

"I'll be in the guest room," I whisper.

Neither of them looks up.

The next morning arrives gray and cold. Rain streaks the floor-to-ceiling windows. I find Vance in his study, typing on his laptop. The morning light makes his dark hair shine.

"I need to discuss something with you." I stand in the doorway, my hands folded.

He glances up. His blue eyes are distant, like he's looking through me. "Make it quick."

"It's about my studio."

"What about it?"

The words stick in my throat. "You want me to convert it into a nursery."

"That's right." He returns to his screen. "Savanna needs space for the baby. Your little hobby room is perfect."

My little hobby room. Where I used to sketch jewelry designs. Where I dreamed of opening my own studio someday. Where I kept my drafting table and my mother's art books.

"I understand," I say.

Because what else can I say?

Later, I'm loading the dishwasher when Savanna glides into the kitchen. She's dressed in one of Vance's button-down shirts, the hem skimming her thighs.

"Oh good," she says, loud enough for Mrs. Chen, our housekeeper, to hear. "You're doing the dishes. The help seems confused about who's actually in charge here."

Mrs. Chen's face flushes red. She's worked for this family for fifteen years.

"I don't mind helping," I murmur.