Stillborn Vows I Took My Husband’s Mistress’s Baby

Seven years of marriage, and I'd lost count of the women my husband, Justin Wiley, had slept with.

The reason I'd turned a blind eye all this time?

He always threw money at me afterward.

An affair with some influencer? A penthouse in the city center.

A yacht party with young models? A matching yacht, signed over to my name.

He bought off my breakdowns, my questions, my tears—all with his checkbook.

Until I was eight months pregnant, and my baby died inside me. A stillbirth. They had to induce labor to take him out.

I leaned on the housekeeper's arm, barely able to stand, as I shuffled out of my hospital room.

That's when I saw him—in the room next door. Justin, hovering over another woman who'd just given birth, handling her like she was made of glass.

Our eyes met. A flicker of panic crossed his face before the familiar coldness settled back in.

He walked over and held out a blank check.

"Write whatever number you want."

I tore it to shreds.

I looked at him and smiled.

"Justin, I don't want money this time."

My trembling hand rose, pointing past him toward the thin, reedy cry coming from that hospital room.

"I want that child."

1.

"Serena, have you lost your mind?!"

Disbelief was written across every line of Justin's face.

I said it again. "I want that child."

The aftermath of induced labor had left me so weak that every word felt like it was draining the life out of me.

"What the hell are you playing at?" He kept his voice low, hissing. "That's not your child!"

"Your child is gone!"

Yes. My child was gone. Dead.

"Your child," I said softly, "isn't that also my child?"

"Or would you rather the Wiley family's firstborn grandson enter this world branded as a bastard?"

Justin's mouth snapped shut.

He and I had grown up together. Our families went back generations—old money intertwined with old money. The Wiley family and the Sinclair family were both elite households that lived and died by reputation and propriety.

He could play around. He could have his affairs. But a stain on the family name? That was the one thing that would never be tolerated.

On the hospital bed, Davina Fox finally processed what was happening.

She struggled to sit up, her voice shrill: "Justin! You can't give her my baby! This is my only—"

Her only weapon for climbing the ladder.

A woman of her unremarkable background, dreaming of rising through motherhood? Delusional.

I watched Justin's face twist with conflict, and suddenly, the whole scene struck me as grotesquely absurd.

I gathered the last of my strength, shoved him aside, and walked into the room, one agonizing step at a time.

Davina flinched, clutching the swaddled infant tighter against her chest.

"Hello, Third Mistress," I said. "I'm Serena Sinclair. Justin's wife."

I forced my lips into a rigid smile and delivered the truth, syllable by syllable.

"Starting today, I am this child's mother."

I paused, savoring the way her face drained of color, then twisted the knife.

"And you? Your baby was stillborn. Induced labor. Do you understand?"

Those two words—induced labor—I barely whispered them.

But they cut so deep I could hardly breathe.

"NO!"

Davina's scream shattered the air. She grabbed the pillow from behind her and hurled it at me.

"You're lying! This is MY baby! MINE!"

Justin followed me in, his expression pained.

"Justin, you can't let her take our child!" Davina sobbed, reaching for him desperately.

Justin looked at me, caught between two impossible choices.

"Serena..."

I leaned in close and murmured in his ear:

"The Westside land deal... Grandfather cares about it a great deal. And it just so happens to be in my brother's hands."

Justin went rigid.