Juliana's POV

People say pregnancy is supposed to be the happiest time of your life.

I used to believe that. I used to collect Pinterest boards of nursery ideas and baby shower themes, thinking that once the third trimester hit, I would be glowing in soft pastels, holding hands with my husband as we argued over baby names.

Instead, I sat alone in a cold hospital chair, the scratchy gown clinging to my damp skin, one hand resting protectively over my swollen belly. Eight months in, and I was heavier than ever, aching in ways I never imagined… physically, emotionally, existentially.

The doctor’s voice echoed in my mind, even after he left the room.

“Stage 3. Aggressive. We recommend immediate treatment. Chemotherapy, possibly surgery post-delivery.”

The printout in my hand confirmed it.

Juliana Rivers. Stage III Adenocarcinoma. Immediate action required.

I stared at the letters, at my name beside the diagnosis, like it belonged to someone else. Someone not carrying a child. Someone not married to Marcus Hawthorne. Someone not expected to smile through betrayal and still show up for her baby shower in two days.

Tears prickled, but I didn’t let them fall. Not yet. I needed air.

Gripping the armrest, I pushed myself up and stepped into the hallway. My legs trembled beneath me. Everything felt heavier, like gravity was trying to pin me to the floor. The fluorescent lights buzzed above me, humming like static in my chest.

Then I heard it. A laugh. Familiar. Bright. Out of place.

And then… “Savannah, you really didn’t need to call me for every appointment.”

Marcus.

I froze. My husband’s voice. Calm. Soft. Warm in a way it hadn’t been for me in months.

I turned slowly, my heart knocking into my ribs. I followed the sound down the corridor toward the OB wing… where I should have been seen today, if he hadn’t claimed he had a last-minute meeting.

I found them tucked in the corner of the waiting room, a picture-perfect scene I would never forget.

Marcus. My husband. Sitting beside Savannah Lee, my childhood best friend-turned-traitor, his hand resting on her rounded belly with such casual intimacy, I almost convinced myself I was dreaming.

But I wasn’t.

She giggled, tucking her blonde curls behind her ear like she used to in high school. “Well, it’s your baby too. I want him to hear your voice.”

My stomach turned.

“I told you I’d be here for both of you,” Marcus said. He brushed her hair back… an old habit. One he used to do to me. “We’re in this together now.”

Together.

The word detonated in my chest.

I stood there frozen for a moment, taking it all in. The closeness. The familiarity. The betrayal. It wasn’t just physical… it was deliberate. Deep. Old.

Savannah saw me first.

She stiffened, then shifted into her signature fake innocence. Her eyes widened. Her hand clutched her bump like she was protecting something sacred.

“Juliana! I… this isn’t what it looks like.”

I walked toward them, slowly, like I might explode if I moved too fast.

“Oh?” I said, waving the paper in my hand like a flag of surrender. “So you’re not playing happy family with my husband while I was twenty feet away being told I have cancer?”

Marcus stood up like I’d slapped him. “Jules…”

“Don’t.” My voice cut sharp. “You said you had a meeting.”

“I…I didn’t mean for this to come out like this. I was going to tell you

…”

I shook my head. “No. You were never going to tell me anything. You were going to let me carry your child and die thinking I still mattered to you.” He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Savannah tried again, voice trembling just enough to sound rehearsed. “I didn’t mean for this to happen, Juliana. It just… did. We didn’t plan it. Marcus was confused. Lonely.”

“Oh,” I said with a bitter laugh. “So my husband fell into your uterus by accident?” Her mouth fell open.

I held up the report, my voice shaking. “Do you know what this is? This is the reason I came to the hospital alone today. While you two were over here playing house, I was finding out if I’d live long enough to see my son graduate kindergarten.”

Marcus stepped forward. “You’re sick?”

“Stage three,” I said coldly. “And I was going to come home and tell you. Cry in your arms. Let you hold me. But you weren’t home. You were here. With her.”

He looked like he had been shot. But he didn’t deny it. He didn’t reach for me.

Instead, Savannah gasped dramatically, clutching her bump. “Oh my God… Marcus, I feel dizzy.”

And like a well-trained dog, he moved. Toward her. Not me. Held her like she was the one falling apart.

And I knew. I knew. I was on my own. I took a step back. No tears. No more pleading. No more waiting for a man who never showed up.

“You made your choice,” I said. Marcus looked back at me, his face torn. “I hope she was worth it.” Then I turned around.

I didn’t look back. Not when he called my name. Not when Savannah smirked behind his shoulder.

I just walked.

I should have left.

I should have gotten into a cab, disappeared into traffic, and never looked back. There was nothing left for me in that hallway except betrayal wrapped in a designer dress and a man who couldn’t tell the difference between loyalty and lust.

But rage has a way of anchoring your feet.

I turned back.

Each step was deliberate. I didn’t storm in. I didn’t scream. I just walked, slowly, intentionally, until I was standing right in front of them again.

Marcus and Savannah looked up.

He blinked like he was seeing a ghost. The audacity of his surprise almost made me laugh. Again, I was the one catching them, and he looked offended?

“Juliana, what are you doing?” he asked, voice low, stepping between us like I might lunge across the room.

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” I replied, sharp and unflinching. “Last I checked, I’m your wife. You should be at my side. Not playing doting daddy to my backstabbing best friend.”

He glanced toward the nurse station, as if worried someone might overhear. “This isn’t the place…”

“No, Marcus,” I snapped, lifting the crumpled medical report in my hand. “This wasn’t the place either.” I waved it in his face. “But that didn’t stop you from driving a knife straight through my back while I was being diagnosed with cancer.”

Savannah slowly stood from her seat, hand gliding over her baby bump like she was playing the lead in some tragic opera. Her voice trembled, and I could almost hear the rehearsed lines before she spoke them.

“Juliana,” she said softly, “I swear, I never meant for this to happen. I didn’t want to come between you two. I was just… there for him when things got hard.”

I looked her dead in the eyes. “You’ve been trying to come between us since college. Don’t act like this just ‘happened.’ You waited until I was eight months pregnant and dying. Timing was your strategy.”

Marcus’s face tensed. “That’s not fair.”

I turned on him. “What’s not fair? That I caught you? That I have receipts?”

He drew in a breath. “Savannah’s carrying my child.”

And just like that, I felt the air get sucked out of my lungs.

The words cut deeper than my diagnosis. Deeper than the doctor’s voice echoing in my head. I blinked, slowly.

“You’re admitting it now?” I asked, voice lower.

He ran a hand through his hair, eyes darting between me and the floor. “I didn’t plan for it. Things between us… changed. You’ve been distant, emotional, always on edge…”

“I’ve been pregnant, Marcus. With your child. While fighting off nausea, hormones, and the slow breakdown of my sanity every time you walked out the door claiming ‘late meetings’.”

Savannah let out a soft sniffle, eyes glassy. “I told him to stay with you. I said I didn’t want to be the reason…”

“Save it,” I cut in coldly. “You’re not the reason. He is.”

Marcus finally looked at me. “Once the baby is born, I’ll file for divorce. I’ll do it right. No drama. You’ll be taken care of.”

I stared at him, almost impressed at how he could say something so insulting and think it was noble.

“You’ll file?” I echoed, laughing bitterly. “How generous. And what will you take care of, exactly? The child you no longer want? The wife you left rotting in a hospital room while you played happy family in a maternity wing that wasn’t hers?”

“I’m trying to handle this maturely…”

“This isn’t maturity. This is cowardice dressed up in a monologue.”

Savannah’s voice came in again, soft as satin. “My baby is just as real as yours, Juliana.”

Her eyes sparkled with something dark. Cold. Unbothered.

“Maybe more,” she added under her breath.

The fury in my chest erupted so fast I had to grip the chair beside me to stop myself from lunging at her. But I didn’t move.

I didn’t need to.

Because in that moment, a nurse appeared, calling Marcus’s name.

He hesitated, eyes torn between us.

Then, like always, he turned his back on me and followed her.

Savannah didn’t go right away. She waited until he was out of sight before dropping the act.

The change in her was immediate.

Her voice was no longer soft. Her smile no longer sympathetic.

“You were always too boring for him,” she said, adjusting her blouse like she was straightening her crown. “Too safe. Too careful. He craved someone who made him feel alive.”

I didn’t respond. I just stared.

“I told him I’d raise a real son,” she continued. “A true heir. Not some fragile baby born to a dying woman too weak to survive labor.”

I stepped closer, fire in my veins. “He’ll see you for what you are.”

“Oh, he already has,” she purred. “And he still picked me.”

I tilted my head. “You sure about that?”

Her smile faltered for half a second. That was all I needed.

“I hope you’re ready for war, Savannah,” I whispered. “Because that baby you’re using as a ticket? It won’t protect you when the truth starts talking.”

She blinked, just once. But it was enough.

She thinks I'm bluffing.

I didn’t want to come back.

Not after everything. Not after the hospital. Not after seeing Marcus hold Savannah like she was the one carrying his legacy while I was left with bruised ribs, a bruised heart, and a diagnosis that had cracked my world open like an egg on hot pavement.

But I had no choice.

My hospital bag was still in the closet. My prenatal vitamins. My insurance paperwork. A few pieces of clothing that still managed to fit my swollen body. I had to retrieve them. And despite everything, there was still a sliver of hope that Marcus would look at me, just once, and remember who I was to him.

The woman who built his home. The woman carrying his son. The woman he married. I stepped through the front door and almost wished I hadn’t. Laughter drifted from the living room. Light. Feminine. Familiar.

Savannah. Of course. I tightened my grip on my purse, forcing my feet forward.

The house looked the same, but it felt different. Like someone had rearranged the air itself. The scent of my vanilla candles had been replaced by something sharper, jasmine and expensive lies.

Savannah was draped across the couch in one of my robes. My robe. The pale blue silk one Marcus gave me last Christmas. She had the belt tied just below her belly, which she cradled with one hand like it was a crown jewel.

She sipped from a mug I recognized too, a Mother's Day gift I had bought myself when Marcus forgot.

She looked up and smiled like she had been expecting me.

“Juliana,” she said sweetly, like we were still best friends and not battlefield enemies. “Didn’t expect you so soon.”

I didn’t reply. I just stood there, drinking her in. Her smugness. Her entitlement. Her calm.

“Marcus isn’t home,” she added, swirling her tea. “He’s out handling a few business calls, but he’ll be back later… with some paperwork, I imagine.”

Paperwork? I moved toward the staircase without a word.

“You’re not even going to ask what kind?” she asked, voice lilting.

I stopped. My fingers curled around the railing. “I don’t care.”

She chuckled under her breath, standing with the grace of someone who believed she had already won.

“You should care,” she said. “Because it concerns your stay here.”

I turned slowly. She leaned against the entryway, arms folded, confidence dripping from her posture like perfume. “Marcus says it’s time we set boundaries. That it’s not fair to me, or the baby, for you to keep dragging this out.”

My chest tightened. “Dragging what out?”

“Your existence in this house,” she replied. “I mean, it’s already awkward. You, sick and moody, hovering like a ghost while Marcus and I are trying to build a life.”

My legs felt weak.

“You’re joking.”

She smiled, cruel and patient. “Oh, honey. No. You’ve been clinging to this place like it still belongs to you. But Marcus and I? We’re building something real now. He told me this morning, he is ready to move on.”

Tears stung my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. I couldn’t give her that satisfaction.

“I’m carrying his child.”

“So am I,” she said, stepping closer. “And between you and me? He’s already started looking at nurseries. Not yours, obviously. He says he wants something new. Fresh. Clean.”

Her words were knives.

Each one sharper than the last.

“And once you’re out,” she continued, “I’ll be the woman of the house. Officially. Just like I should have been all along.”

Something twisted inside me. Something raw and sick and ancient. Rage. Grief. Disbelief. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

Savannah reached out, brushing invisible lint from my shoulder like we were still girls in high school and not soldiers on opposite sides of a war.

“I suggest you pack soon,” she whispered. “The sooner you leave, the easier this will be. For everyone.”

My knees buckled slightly. I gripped the railing tighter. She stepped back and smiled, satisfied. “I’ll let the staff know you’ll be vacating by the weekend. Maybe sooner.”

She turned and glided back to the couch, picking up the remote and switching on the TV like she hadn’t just declared war with a whisper.

I couldn’t breathe. I walked up the stairs slowly, my chest rising and falling like a balloon losing air. Each step felt heavier than the last. My son kicked inside me, agitated by my stress. I tried to breathe deeply, to slow my heart rate, but my vision was starting to blur.

By the time I reached the bedroom, my head was pounding. The air smelled different in here too. Sterile. Displaced. Her perfume, too strong.

The bed was made, but not in the way I did it. The pillows fluffed too high. The sheets tucked too tight. My room didn’t feel like mine anymore.

Nothing did. I lowered myself to the edge of the bed, gripping my stomach with both hands, whispering to my son. “It’s okay, baby. It’s okay. Mommy’s okay…”

But I wasn’t. The nausea hit first. A wave so strong I nearly choked. Then the dizziness. Then the stabbing pain just below my ribs.

I gasped. My body fell forward.

Footsteps thudded up the stairs, quickly and panicked. One of the maids rushed in, eyes wide. “Ma’am! You’re pale… are you okay?”

I opened my mouth to speak, but all that came out was a strangled breath. Another pain stabbed through me, sharper this time.

I clutched my belly and doubled over.

“Call an ambulance!” the maid screamed over her shoulder. “Now!”

More footsteps. Shouting. Chaos. I heard someone call my name. I couldn’t tell who.

My body went limp. And then, as the world tilted sideways and the edges of my vision turned black, I heard the thrum of my heartbeat in my ears, fast and terrified.

I fell, holding my stomach as I gave in to the darkness.