My Husband Let His Mistress Kill Our Baby

The rooftop in Brooklyn smelled like charcoal smoke and expensive cologne. I stood near the railing with my hand on my belly, feeling the baby shift beneath my palm. Seven months. The dress I wore was loose, navy blue, chosen because it hid things.

Declan was across the terrace with his friends. Marcus Hale. Tyler Chen. Evan something-or-other. The Wall Street pack. They stood in a tight circle, laughing too loud, holding beers like trophies. Declan's back was to me. It usually was.

I should have left an hour ago. My feet hurt. My back ached. But Declan had asked me to come, and I still believed that meant something.

"Charlee!" Marcus waved me over. His smile was wide and wet. "Get over here."

I walked slowly. The baby pressed against my ribs.

Marcus pulled something from his jacket pocket. A rubber stamp. The kind you'd buy at a novelty shop. He held it up like a prize. "Check this out. Anti-cheating seal. For the wives."

The men laughed. Tyler slapped Marcus on the back.

I looked at Declan. He was grinning. Not at me. At them.

"Let's try it," Marcus said.

I stepped back. "That's not funny."

"Come on." Marcus moved closer. "It's a joke."

"I'm going home." I turned.

Hands grabbed my arms. Tyler on one side. Evan on the other. I twisted, tried to pull away, but they were strong and I was pregnant and off-balance.

"Declan." My voice came out high. "Declan, tell them to stop."

He took a sip of his beer. "Relax. It's just a stamp."

Marcus pressed the stamp to an ink pad. The sound was soft. A kiss of rubber on felt.

I struggled harder. "Let me go."

They pushed me down into a chair. Someone held my shoulders. Someone else gripped my wrists. I kicked, but my center of gravity was all wrong. The baby made me slow.

Marcus leaned in. His breath smelled like beer and onions. He pressed the stamp to my face. My cheekbone. The bridge of my nose. I felt the cold ink, the pressure, the heat of his hand.

"Breeding sow," Tyler said, laughing. "That's what she looks like."

The men roared. Phones came out. Flashes went off.

I stopped fighting. I went still. I looked at Declan.

He was smiling at his phone. Taking a photo.

When they let me go, I stood. My legs shook. I picked up the nearest glass—whiskey, half-melted ice—and threw it at Declan. It hit his chest. Liquid spread across his shirt.

The laughter stopped.

I walked to the elevator. No one followed me.

The ink was still wet on my face when I got to the street.

---

The next night, Declan came home late. He smelled like perfume I didn't wear.

I was in the kitchen, making tea. Chamomile. The only thing that helped with the nausea.

"You hungry?" I asked.

"Nah." He opened the fridge. Pulled out a beer.

I poured the tea. Sat at the table. "We need to talk about last night."

"What about it?"

"Your friends held me down. They stamped my face."

He shrugged. "It was a joke."

"It wasn't funny."

"You threw a drink at me."

"Because you let them—"

"You're being dramatic." He twisted the cap off the beer. "You always do this."

I held my left wrist with my right hand. Pressed my thumb into the pulse point. Counted.

Declan opened a takeout container. Shrimp pad thai. The smell hit me immediately. Sharp. Fishy. Wrong.

"I can't be around that," I said. "You know I'm allergic."

"You're fine."

"I'm not. Please put it away."

He scooped a forkful and held it toward me. "Try it."

"Declan—"

"One bite. Stop being so dramatic."

"I'll go into anaphylaxis."

"You won't." He stepped closer. "Open your mouth."

I stood. Backed toward the door.

He followed. Cornered me against the counter. Held the fork near my face. "Eat it."

I turned my head. He grabbed my jaw. Forced my mouth open. Shoved the fork in.

I gagged. Spit it into the sink. Shrimp and noodles and sauce.

He laughed. Took a photo with his phone.

Twenty minutes later, my face started to swell. My lips ballooned. Hives crawled up my neck, across my chest. I took two Benadryl and sat on the bathroom floor, waiting.

Declan came to the door. Took another photo. "You look insane," he said.

I heard his phone buzz. Buzz. Buzz. The group chat. I knew without looking.

I pressed my forehead to the cool tile and held my wrist and counted my breaths until the swelling went down.

---

Three days later, Declan took a call at dinner. His face lit up. Not the polite smile he used with clients. Something real.

"Hey," he said into the phone. His voice was soft. "Yeah. I'm free."

I looked at my plate. Pasta I'd made from scratch. He hadn't touched it.

When he hung up, I asked, "Who was that?"

"Work."

"It didn't sound like work."

"You're imagining things."

"Declan—"

"This is why no one wants to be around you." He stood. Grabbed his jacket. "You're hormonal. You're paranoid. I can't do this right now."

He left.

I sat alone at the table, staring at the two plates, the candles I'd lit, the pasta going cold.

My phone buzzed. A notification. Instagram. Declan had been tagged in a photo.

I opened it.

Him. A woman. Her hand on his arm. She was beautiful. Thin. Not swollen. Not pregnant. Her smile was sharp and white.

The caption: *Perfect night with my favorite person.*

I zoomed in on her face. Selena Meyer. I didn't know her. But I would.