Pregnant Wife's Justice

The doctor's appointment had ended earlier than expected. Seven months pregnant and exhausted, I'd driven home through the afternoon drizzle, looking forward to nothing more than putting my swollen feet up and maybe feeling the baby kick while I rested. The house felt unusually quiet as I stepped through the front door, my keys jingling softly in the stillness.

That's when I heard Jameson's voice drifting from his study—low, controlled, the tone he used for business calls that required absolute discretion. I paused at the bottom of the stairs, one hand instinctively moving to my rounded belly. Something in his voice made me freeze.

"The old man's condition is deteriorating faster than expected," Jameson was saying, his words carrying clearly through the slightly open study door. "Good. That's exactly what we need."

My blood turned to ice. The old man? My father had been in the hospital for weeks now, his heart condition worsening while we waited desperately for a transplant match.

"Dr. Reed, I need you to understand something very clearly," Jameson continued, his voice dropping to that deadly calm tone I'd only heard him use with business rivals. "Thomas Spencer must not survive. The heart transplant request needs to be... delayed indefinitely. There are always complications with these procedures, aren't there?"

The world tilted sideways. I gripped the banister so hard my knuckles went white, my wedding ring cutting into my finger. This couldn't be happening. This couldn't be real.

"And if the pregnancy becomes problematic," Jameson's voice continued with chilling casualness, "the child can be dealt with as well. We've invested too much in this arrangement to let sentiment interfere now. Sienna's position must be protected at all costs."

Sienna. The name hit me like a physical blow, stealing the breath from my lungs. My legs gave out, and I sank onto the bottom step, my hand pressed against my mouth to stifle the sob that threatened to escape.

Three years. Three years of marriage, of believing in his love, of thinking I'd finally found safety after losing everything. Three years of gentle touches, whispered promises, of him holding me when nightmares about my mother's accident woke me screaming. Three years of lies.

"The Spencer woman has served her purpose," Jameson continued, his tone as clinical as if he were discussing stock portfolios. "She provided the perfect cover story, and her grief made her wonderfully compliant. But she's becoming... inconvenient. The emotional attachment she's developed is problematic."

Emotional attachment. As if my love for him was some kind of business liability to be managed.

I pressed my back against the wall, my breath coming in short, panicked gasps. The baby kicked hard against my ribs, as if sensing my distress, and I placed both hands protectively over my stomach. Even our child—our child—was nothing more than a potential obstacle to him.

The conversation continued, but the words blurred together in a haze of betrayal and horror. Something about maintaining appearances, about timeline management, about ensuring my father's