His Pregnant Canary Demanded My Medical Exam

My husband, Damon Blackwood, had a standing quota with his little bird. The Canary’s Contract: twelve nights a month. This month, swamped with work, he’d only managed eleven. The little bird, Ainsley Shore, threw an all-day tantrum—no food, no drink, just pure, streaming, theatrical tears. Damon, desperate to placate his mistress, came begging to me, the wife. “Ellie, just a quick call. Explain to her that this month was entirely hers. Tell her I haven’t been near you—it’s just one sentence.” He wasn’t wrong. Intimacy between us had been dead for years. Since his first affair three years ago, I’d developed a visceral, agonizing aversion to his touch. The moment he tried to come near me, I was seized by panic, by a crushing sense of suffocation. He’d tried a few times, and each time ended with me fighting for air. He never dared touch me again after that, yet he still insisted I was the only woman he ever truly loved. But he never stopped cheating. I dialed the number. My voice was calm, almost flat. “Damon belongs only to you, Ainsley. And that’s how it will be.” When I hung up, Damon looked relieved, then slightly wounded, mistaking my lack of fury for jealousy. He tried to soothe me, his eyes full of that familiar, fake tenderness. “You know I still care about you, too.” But I don’t want you anymore, Damon. We’d been separated—under the same roof, but separated—for almost two years. The courts would grant the divorce soon.

The little bird wasn’t so easily convinced. She didn’t believe me. She sent Damon right back. He shuffled back into the living room, defeated, at his wit’s end, and started working on me again. I cut him off, getting straight to the point. “Damon, what exactly do you want me to do?” Seeing my steady demeanor, the absence of the raging fury he expected, he let his guard down and spoke his worst thought aloud. “Get a doctor’s check. There are specialized physicians for this,” he said, all business. “Don’t worry, I’ll hire a female doctor. A thorough, internal examination—that will prove we haven’t been intimate.” He paused, softening his tone, trying to coax me as if I were a difficult child. “The girl’s got a one-track mind; she won’t believe it otherwise. Just humor her.” He lifted his hand, a glint of patronizing affection in his eyes, reaching out to pat my head. “You’re the sensible one, Ellie. Unlike her, who just throws tantrums.” A wave of nausea crashed over me. I flinched back instantly, an instinctual retreat, moving as far away from him as possible. A dense, sharp pain bloomed in my chest, and the familiar crushing sensation of panic began to tighten around my lungs. I was long past caring, but for him to ask me—his wife—to subject myself to a medical exam for the sake of his mistress, the ultimate humiliation, was a fresh, gut-wrenching betrayal. My gesture, recoiling from him as if he were toxic waste, used to hurt him deeply. But after years of it, he had grown accustomed to the rejection. He even stepped back voluntarily this time, careful to maintain a safe distance. “Just treat it like a regular physical,” he pleaded softly. “Don’t let it stress you out.” The bile rose in my throat, acrid and sharp. I clutched my chest, letting out a short, cynical laugh. “Damon Blackwood, you are unbelievable. You’d be doing me a favor if you just gave me what I want. Let’s get the divorce finalized!” I finally yelled. He knew he was in the wrong, so he didn’t push. His voice softened again, attempting to soothe the tantrum he himself provoked. “Don’t say things you don’t mean, Ellie. You are and always will be the most important person to me.” “Just calm down.” He always said that. He always said I was the most important, yet he was utterly incapable of staying off the Canary’s bed. He was banking on his wealth and power, certain that I would tolerate this pathetic throuple. After all, I had fought tooth and nail for the title of Mrs. Blackwood. He was convinced I could never let go of this life of ease and luxury. What modern-day Cinderella willingly walks out of the gilded castle? What he didn’t know was that this Cinderella had already stockpiled her exit funds. I was financially free and had been for months. Then, his phone exploded with a relentless series of calls. The ringtone was customized—a jarring, saccharine pop song titled “The One.” The ringtone Damon had set for Ainsley Shore. Even in the middle of our heated argument, he answered her. I heard Ainsley’s tear-choked, spoiled voice, demanding attention. “Damon! I gave you my youth—I was only eighteen! You’re a liar and a cheat! You promised me twelve times a month and swore you wouldn’t touch the wife! I’m your caged bird, but you’re a fraud! We’re over! I won’t let you hurt me again!” Ainsley was the most demanding and least afraid of his mistresses. He’d spoiled her rotten. It was sickening. I remembered when his mother—his very traditional, deeply respected mother—passed away unexpectedly last year. Damon, as the only son, was supposed to keep vigil. But Ainsley, drunk and hysterical, had cried and begged him to come to her. He’d left the wake for his own mother, delegating the duty of watching over her body to me, his wife, while he went to console his mistress. That night, Ainsley had sent me a photo—a provocative, taunting picture. “He was so tired after coming for me a few times tonight that he passed out. Sorry you have to handle everything at the Blackwood house alone.” No one knew how I survived that night. The pain was so profound it bordered on a physical collapse. Before Ainsley, Damon had been genuinely devoted to his mother. From that night on, I knew his affair wasn’t just about sex. He was in love. He loved her so much he was willing to trample my dignity into the dirt for her. The sound of his voice, strained and harsh, snapped me back to the present. “You are impossible! Fine, you don’t believe me? The doctor will examine her tomorrow! Will that finally satisfy you?” I hadn’t even refused the examination—I had demanded a divorce. Yet, he agreed to the disgusting demand just to shut her up. The next morning, Ainsley showed up with a male physician she’d brought from outside. Damon was shocked. “Absolutely not a man! Only a female doctor!” he barked, his face tightening with a sudden, possessive jealousy. For all his continuous cheating, he still kept a fierce grip on me. If I so much as had a longer-than-necessary conversation with a male colleague, his temper would flare. A classic case of “Do as I say, not as I do.” Ainsley’s face hardened. “How do I know a female doctor wouldn’t be on her payroll? What if you two are conspiring to deceive me?” He, of course, indulged her. “Then you find the female doctor! You hire her yourself!” She pouted, agreeing with ill grace. Did they truly think I was a doormat? I walked straight up to Ainsley and slapped her. Hard. “You trash!” I hissed, savoring the shock that stole the breath from her lungs. “What right do you, a glorified mistress, have to dictate the intimacies of my marriage?” The act of violence was a rush of clean, pure malice. To twist the knife, I deliberately added, “And for your information, Damon didn’t make his quota because he was too busy with me. We slept together seven times, and the man was exhausted!” The massive number of seven nights hit Ainsley like a thunderbolt. She instantly dissolved, tears streaming, and she screamed at Damon. “She admitted it! Why are you still trying to deny it?” I’d done it. I’d successfully enraged them both. Damon glared at me, his face crimson. “What the hell are you saying? Haven’t you caused enough trouble already?” Ainsley ran off, clutching her stinging cheek. Damon instantly chased after her, his priority clear. What was truly pathetic and darkly ironic was that as he ran to console his mistress, he paused just long enough to bark an order at the butler. “Make sure the Madam takes her medicine!” Ever since my aversion to his touch began, he had spent a fortune on various treatments, insisting the doctors could “fix” me. He often reassured me, “It’ll get better. Once you’re well, we’ll have our baby.” He didn’t know I had poured every single pill and drop down the sink. I hadn’t taken a single dose. I was counting the days until my freedom. On the way to an appointment to finalize my travel documents, I was intercepted by Damon’s people. I was held in the house and forcibly strapped onto a cold, hard examination table. Five female doctors. They roughly bound my arms and legs. As I thrashed and screamed, a video call rang on one of the doctor’s phones. The next second, Ainsley’s voice filled the room. “Make sure you check carefully!” “Miss Shore, we are professionals. We will be thorough.” I was overcome with blinding rage. “Ainsley Shore, you deserve to burn in hell! And you, Damon Blackwood! You’ll rot!” I knew he was with her. And sure enough, his voice came through the phone, steady and controlled. “Ellie, Ainsley is pregnant. I’m 35. Please, don’t make this harder than it has to be.” His meaning was crushingly clear: Cooperate. Since he was 25, Damon had yearned to be a father. Early in our marriage, we had conceived once, after years of his fertility treatments, as his sperm count was low. That brief time was the happiest of my life with Damon. But when I was nine months pregnant, he met Ainsley. Young, vibrant, beautiful. One motorcycle ride, and he was completely gone. Three days later, I saw the photo she’d posted online—the two of them on the bike, a thousand comments calling them a gorgeous, destined couple. The shock sent me into premature labor and a devastating difficult birth that cost us the baby. The loss of our child did not bring the prodigal husband home. He cried, yes, and promised me, “It was an accident. We’ll have another.” Damon didn’t know that in that moment, my hope, and my love for him, finally died. Now he had another chance at a child, and he would stop at nothing to secure it. His words sliced into my deepest wound. He knew the depth of my grief, yet he was asking me to endure this humiliation for his and Ainsley’s baby. I screamed, my voice raw, “You heartless monster! If you let them touch me, I will hate you for the rest of your life! You can’t do this to me!” Ainsley’s voice cut in, impatient. “I’m not listening to them argue, Damon!” Damon’s patience finally snapped. He spoke to the doctors, his voice cold. “Give the Madam a sedative.” He hesitated for a second, then addressed me, trying to be placating. “Just for a moment, Ellie. It won’t harm you. Be a good girl. Try to understand my position.” I continued to struggle wildly, but I froze when I saw one doctor pick up a long, thin speculum and reach for my clothes. Then another needle, sharp and cold, plunged into my arm. My struggling soon faded. I was numb, drowsy, sinking into a void. In that fading awareness, I realized the phone line to Ainsley was still open. The doctor was still conducting the invasive examination. The phone was near my ear, broadcasting an insidious conversation. Damon’s voice was strained, laced with a forced control. “You’re pregnant, you can’t. Be patient, I’ll make it up to you after the baby is born.” “No! I won’t hold back. Just be gentle. Even if I’m pregnant, twelve times a month can’t be skipped,” Ainsley whined, her voice sickeningly sweet and demanding. Then, she changed tactics. “You always say you love me, but what about her? Why won’t you leave her?” I wanted to know the answer too, listening through the fog of the drug. Damon’s voice remained even, chillingly detached. “Are you stupid? Divorce means splitting my assets fifty-fifty. I haven’t touched her in years; it’s practically a divorce already. Remember, I’m a businessman. Everything is a cost-benefit analysis.” He’s such a convincing liar. He told her he couldn’t afford the divorce. In reality, he had transferred the vast majority of his wealth into my personal accounts, legally notarized and untouchable. I’d even tried to force his hand by deliberately leaking corporate secrets to his rival, costing Blackwood Industries billions and nearly bankrupting him. He hadn’t yelled. He hadn’t even filed charges. He had just placated me. I finally saw the truth: he truly loved me, and he truly loved Ainsley. He was greedy. He wanted his anchor at home, and his thrill outside. He wanted us both. The doctor finally spoke, removing the phone from my ear. “Miss Shore, we’ve examined Mrs. Blackwood. She hasn’t been intimate recently. In fact, there is no evidence of sexual activity in the last four years.” Ainsley’s satisfied sigh was audible. “Thank you. I’m wiring you an extra bonus.” They packed up and left. As the sedative wore off, a deep, pervasive throbbing started in my lower body. A smell of iron and blood filled the air. I tried to move; the sharp pain that followed was excruciating. My backside was slick with sticky blood. This hadn’t been a sterile, scientific check. This was a brutal act of torture. A blinding, terrifying hatred consumed me. I lay there for hours, drenched in cold sweat, until the pain was manageable. In that moment of total brokenness, an outrageous, earth-shattering idea bloomed in my mind. Dragging my ravaged body, I stumbled to the garage. I found the ignition, and I set fire to the ten-million-dollar mansion—the “Cinderella’s Castle” Damon had built for me. The flames were a blinding, crackling gold. I stood at a distance and watched it burn. And as I watched, I started to laugh. I laughed at ten years of marriage, a decade-long farce. I laughed at the thought of the “prince” who had thrown the glass slipper at his Cinderella. And I laughed because, in that moment of fiery, glorious madness, I was finally breaking free. I was becoming my own person. Damon didn’t receive the news until the house was nothing but a scorched, smoking skeleton. That day was also the initial hearing for my divorce case. My lawyer was there representing me. Damon was on his way back when his lawyer called. The news hit him like a lightning bolt. “Why didn’t you tell me she filed a second time?” he thundered at the lawyer. The lawyer stuttered. “Mrs. Blackwood said… she said you knew.” He hadn’t. He thought I had acquiesced after my initial failed attempt at a divorce years ago. He thought he had bought my silence. He hadn’t realized I was still fighting, using his chronic adultery and our two years of separation as grounds. Damon hung up the phone, completely stunned, and frantically tried to call me. No answer. When he arrived, witnessing the ruin of the castle he’d built, his knees buckled. He stumbled and fell to the ground. Firefighters were beginning the cleanup. Damon struggled to his feet, trying to push past the yellow tape and the first responders. “Sir, you can’t go in there.” He kept shoving. “My wife is inside!” “We checked, sir. The house was empty. Just property damage.” The tension in Damon’s body instantly eased. He let out a great, shuddering breath of relief. His legs felt solid again. He even managed a weak, relieved smile. “Good. As long as she’s safe.” “Mr. Blackwood, we found a lead on the Madam’s whereabouts.” Damon’s right-hand man rushed up, shoving a phone with a video on the screen into his hand. Damon grabbed the device. The images he saw made his eyes go bloodshot. This was worse than the shock of the fire and the lawsuit. His hand, holding the phone, trembled violently. His aide was terrified, barely breathing. Damon had never seen the CEO this enraged—veins bulging in his forehead, a murderous fury radiating off him. The video showed me, dressed to the nines, sitting in a man’s lap, laughing and flirting with the young male model.