I don’t remember falling, only the sharp pain blooming low in my belly, and the wetness spreading down my thighs.
“Call 911,” I whispered to the maid. “Now! Please. And don't ever... call Dominic.”
When I woke up in the hospital, the world felt too white, too still. A nurse with soft eyes said, “I’m sorry… The baby didn’t make it.”
Then she asked if I wanted to see the child.
I turned my face away. My whole body was trembling.
“No,” I whispered. “Please, no.”
I had been five months along. The baby was gone.
When they discharged me, I went home to an empty house. I sat at the dining table and wrote out the divorce papers by hand. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking, but I finished.
Then I called Dominic.
He usually picked up fast. Always saying something like, “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” with that fake warmth in his voice.
But that night, he didn’t answer.
I called again. And again. Twenty-three times.
When he finally picked up, there was music in the background. Laughter. Glasses clinking.
“Man, you really left your pregnant wife for your old flame?” someone said, laughing.
“She’s just a stand-in. Everyone knows he’s been obsessed with Loriana for years,” another voice said.