My Husband Let His Mistress Torture Me in Labor

The call came at 11:47 PM.

I was lying on my side in bed, trying to find a position that didn't make my back scream. Nine months pregnant. Two days from my due date. My daughter — we'd decided to name her Oaklyn — pressed against my ribs like she was trying to dig her way out early.

My phone lit up. Unknown number.

I almost didn't answer. But Bryce wasn't home yet. He'd gone out with Sasha hours ago. Some startup networking thing, he'd said. I'd stopped asking questions about their late nights months ago. It only ever started fights.

I swiped to answer. "Hello?"

"Mrs. Cooper?" A man's voice. Rough. Breathless. "Your husband's been taken. We have him outside Seattle. If you want him back alive, you bring fifty thousand dollars to the Rattlesnake Ridge trailhead. Ninety minutes. Come alone."

The line went dead.

My heart slammed against my sternum. My hands shook so hard I nearly dropped the phone. Kidnapped. Bryce was kidnapped.

I tried calling him back. Straight to voicemail. I tried Sasha. Voicemail.

I rolled out of bed, my belly heavy and tight. I pulled on jeans that barely buttoned anymore and a sweatshirt that smelled like Bryce's cologne. My mind was racing. Fifty thousand. Ninety minutes. The bank wouldn't be open. But we had a joint account. I could use the ATM. I could withdraw the maximum each hour until—

No. There wasn't time.

I grabbed my purse and keys and waddled to the car as fast as my swollen body would allow. Every step sent a dull ache through my pelvis. Oaklyn kicked hard, like she knew something was wrong.

The ATM let me pull twenty thousand in one transaction. I drove to another branch. Another twenty. Then a third. By the time I had fifty thousand dollars in crumpled hundreds stuffed into a duffel bag, I had thirty-eight minutes left.

I drove north out of Seattle with my hazards on, doing seventy in a fifty-five zone. My lower back was cramping. Braxton Hicks, I told myself. Just practice contractions. Not real labor. Not now.

The trailhead was empty when I pulled in. No other cars. Just gravel and fog rolling down from the ridge like something out of a nightmare. I grabbed the duffel bag, slung it over one shoulder, and started up the trail.

It was steep. Rocky. The fog made everything slick. I had to stop twice in the first ten minutes, bracing myself against a tree as my back seized up. The contractions were getting stronger. Closer together.

Not now. Please, not now.

I kept climbing. My breath came in short gasps. My thighs burned. The duffel bag felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. But I kept going because Bryce was up there. My husband. The father of my baby. He needed me.

Forty minutes later, I reached the summit.

And I saw him.

Bryce was standing beside a silver SUV, drink in hand, laughing. Sasha was next to him, leaning against the hood, her phone in her hand. She was wearing a tight red dress and heels. Not a scratch on either of them.

I stopped. My legs were shaking. My vision blurred at the edges.

"Bryce?"

He turned. Saw me. His smile faltered for half a second, then came back, lazy and amused.

"Hey, babe. You made it."

I stared at him. At Sasha. At the drink in his hand.

"What... what is this?"

Sasha straightened, grinning. She held up her phone like she was filming. "It's a bet, Melissa. I told Bryce his sweet little wifey would risk her life and her baby to save him. He said you wouldn't. So we tested it."

My heart stopped.

"You... you what?"

Bryce shrugged. He took a sip of his drink. "Relax. It was just a joke. You're fine."

"A joke?" My voice cracked. "I climbed a mountain. I'm nine months pregnant. I thought you were going to die."

Sasha laughed. "And you did it. So I win. Bryce owes me fifty grand now."

Something inside me snapped. Not emotionally. Physically.

A gush of warmth flooded down my thighs. I looked down. My jeans were soaked. Water pooled around my shoes on the gravel.

My water had broken.

I doubled over, gasping. Pain ripped through my abdomen, sharp and vicious. A real contraction. Not practice. Real.

"Bryce," I choked out. "Hospital. Now."

Sasha glanced down at the puddle spreading around my feet. Then she looked at Bryce. Her expression shifted. Calculating. Hungry.

She reached for her phone.

Bryce said nothing.

He just stood there, drink in hand, and watched me fall to my knees.