He Sacrificed Our Child for His Muse’s Lies

I found the ultrasound printout tucked into the breast pocket of Gabriel Thorne’s crisp dress shirt. It was Celeste Price’s. And where it should have listed the father, it simply read, “Gabriel Thorne, Spouse.” Gabe has always had a constellation of women orbiting him, but Celeste, The High School Sweetheart, the perfect Muse he lost and then found again, was the one he was pathologically obsessed with. He saw me holding the flimsy paper and offered a casual, dismissive explanation. “She’s in the first trimester, Adora. Her emotions are fragile right now, and she can’t handle the gossip. I’m just letting her use my name to run interference. Don’t overthink it.” I calmly folded the paper and slipped it back into his pocket. “If you’re happy, Gabe, you don’t need to explain anything.” He froze. That alone was enough to throw him. In the past, the mere mention of Celeste’s name would turn me into a raging banshee, capable of smashing everything in sight. I turned to walk away, and a flicker of panic crossed his face. “Adora, wait. Why aren’t you causing a scene? You used to hate it the most when I even spoke her name.” He didn’t know. Just half a month ago, because his Muse had complained of a stomach ache, he had abandoned me on the side of an elevated highway during a torrential downpour. That night, in the cold, unforgiving rain, I lost our child. Now, I simply didn’t have the energy to care about Celeste’s baby, or the man who was lying about it.

1 Gabe stared at my retreating back, his gaze laced with scrutiny and a barely concealed discomfort. Usually, by now, the antique vase would be shattered at his feet. Even if I didn’t break anything, I would be sobbing and demanding to know why Celeste’s pregnancy was any of his business. But today, I just folded the ultrasound printout and returned it. He must have been unnerved by my composure. His footsteps closed the distance, and a pair of arms encircled me from behind, his hands closing over mine. The cloying mix of his expensive cologne and a sweet, floral perfume—undeniably Celeste’s signature scent—hit my nostrils. My stomach lurched violently. “I’m not going out tonight,” he murmured, resting his chin on my shoulder. “We’ll stay in and have dinner.” I stiffened, then gently pushed him away. “I need to use the restroom.” I walked into the bathroom and cranked the cold water tap. I scrubbed my wrists, where his fingers had rested, over and over, until the skin was pink and raw. Dinner was lavish. Gabe seemed pleased, interpreting my silence as a sign that I was finally “coming around.” He spooned a piece of spicy Thai curry with shrimp onto my plate, his voice soft. “Eat up, Adora. This used to be your favorite.” I stared at the shrimp coated in the bright red sauce. I had been severely allergic to shellfish since I was twelve. I didn’t know when he had forgotten that. Still, I picked up the shrimp, put it in my mouth, and began to chew. As soon as the savory, pungent spice hit my throat, it triggered a primal, physiological rejection. “Oh God—” I clapped a hand over my mouth and stumbled into the bathroom, emptying my stomach until my body shook. Gabe followed, standing awkwardly behind me. “You’re throwing up so violently. Should we go to the clinic?” He reached out to steady me. The instant his fingertips brushed my shoulder, I flinched away, a purely reflexive move. “I’m fine.” He watched me, his expression complex. He clearly didn’t believe me. The old Adora would have leveraged this minor illness for attention, demanding cuddles or using it as a weapon to keep him away from Celeste. But I was too calm. “Are you still angry about the ultrasound, Adora?” “I explained it. Celeste is alone in the city, an unwed mother-to-be, and she’s already getting side-eye. I was just—” “I know,” I cut him off. “You were helping her. Why would I be angry?” Gabe looked stunned. At that moment, his phone vibrated on the dining table. The screen flashed the name: Celeste. He rushed over to answer it. “Gabe…” Celeste’s voice, thick with tears, filtered through the line. “I’m so sick. I can’t keep anything down, but I suddenly have this awful craving for that spicy Thai curry from that place downtown…” Gabe instinctively grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair and headed for the door. He paused only when he reached the entryway, turning back to me. “Celeste is fragile, and she’s pregnant. The doctor said she can’t have any emotional stress.” “Go on then. Don’t keep her waiting.” My tone was utterly flat. He searched my eyes, desperate for a flash of jealousy, anger, or even a hint of wounded vulnerability. He found nothing. “Adora.” His throat bobbed, as if he were wrestling with some internal conflict. “Aren’t you going? If not, then sit down and finish your dinner.” I walked back to the table and resumed my seat. Gabe’s face darkened instantly. He snatched his keys, turned, and walked out. I picked up my fork and began methodically eating the leftover salads. After dinner, I went to our room. I pulled out the half-packed suitcase from under the bed. I took the small, folded ultrasound printout—the blurred image of what was supposed to be our future—and tucked it into the pages of a favorite novel. My phone buzzed. A new message. “You’re sure about this? Does Gabe know?” I tapped out a reply. “He doesn’t need to know.” 2 Gabe didn’t come home all night. Celeste posted a picture on her private Instagram story. It was a gourmet takeout container of creamy truffle pasta, and a man’s hand was meticulously separating a large scallop for her. The caption: “Brother Gabe always comes running, no matter how late. Feeling so loved and protected. ” I scrolled past it without expression, locked my phone, and went to sleep. The next day passed without a word from him. I went through the motions: eating, packing, and calling the moving service. It wasn’t until late afternoon that Gabe’s assistant called. “Mrs. Thorne, Mr. Thorne asked if you would be his date for the Spring Charity Gala tonight. He should be arriving downstairs in about thirty minutes.” I applied my makeup and changed into a sleek, black cocktail dress. Thirty minutes passed. An hour passed. My phone chimed. A text message. Gabe: Something came up. Go ahead without me. Always that line. I efficiently walked to the bathroom, wiped off the makeup, and changed back into a simple sweater and jeans. I cooked a bowl of simple noodles and ate them alone in the quiet, empty living room. The wall clock struck midnight. The lock turned, and Gabe walked in, carrying the scent of the cold night and the heavy musk of a different, unfamiliar perfume. He held an elegant, square gift box. He seemed surprised to see me still sitting up. A fleeting look of guilt crossed his face. “Adora, you’re still awake?” He walked over and placed the box on the coffee table, his voice softening. “I’m sorry, honey. There was a sudden, urgent board meeting. I couldn’t get away.” I looked up at him. My gaze settled on the collar of his white dress shirt. A smear of bright red lipstick, undeniable and jarring, stained the crisp fabric. Gabe followed my sightline, and his color changed. He quickly covered his collar. “That’s… Celeste tripped, and I had to rush her to the clinic. It must have brushed off when I caught her. But she’s fine, thankfully.” I simply said, “Oh.” His confident facade wavered. He picked up the box, opened it, and revealed a shimmering Solitaire Diamond Pendant. “Look. Do you like it? I thought it would suit you perfectly.” He held the necklace up to my throat. I had seen the exact same necklace on Celeste’s Instagram feed barely ten minutes ago. Since Celeste returned, I had become her shadow. Handbags, fragrances, jewelry. If Gabe bought it for me, Celeste inevitably received an identical one. We had fought about it countless times. He would always dismiss me: “Celeste has similar taste, Adora, and I’m busy. It’s easier to buy two. Don’t be so petty.” In the past, I would have thrown the necklace into the trash and started a house-shaking argument. Gabe was clearly waiting for me to explode. He looked wired, ready for the fight. But I took the pendant from his hand and looked up, giving him a small, placid smile. “It’s beautiful. Thank you, Gabe. I love it.” Gabe froze entirely. The emotion in his eyes was a mess: surprise, relief, but overriding it all was an inexplicable sense of loss and panic. “You… you really like it?” he asked, hesitant. I nodded perfunctorily and placed the pendant back in the box. The nameless rage he’d been suppressing suddenly erupted. I was being compliant, well-behaved, silent. Yet, he felt me slipping further away than ever before—so far he couldn’t reach me. He yanked his tie loose, throwing the gift box to the floor. “Adora, who are you playing the virtuous wife for?” “You used to hate having the same things as her! Are you trying to freeze me out?” He roared, desperately trying to provoke me, trying to summon the passionate, jealous, alive Adora he knew. I bent down, picked up the scattered box, and lightly brushed the dust off the lid. My voice remained perfectly even. “Isn’t this what you always wanted?” “No shouting, no fighting, just a sensible, obedient, generous wife. One who… doesn’t compete with Celeste.” Gabe was utterly silenced. He looked at me as if I were a stranger. Finally, he let his arms drop and walked toward the bathroom. “Whatever, Adora.” The sound of the shower started. I sat on the couch, looked at the gift box, and gave a cold, quiet laugh. Then, I tossed it casually into the nearest trash can. 3 In the deep hours of the night, I was pulled into a nightmare. I was back in the blinding downpour of two weeks ago. The thunder was screaming, and the windshield wipers were frantic, unable to clear the deluge. I had just confirmed the pregnancy. Four weeks along. Desperate to save this crumbling marriage, and determined to leave no space for Celeste to wedge herself between us, I had become Gabe’s shadow. I waited in the conference room during his meetings. I sat silently in the passenger seat during his late-night networking events. I was waiting for us to get home so I could pull out the ultrasound from my bag and show him. Then, his phone rang. “Brother Gabe, my stomach hurts so bad… I’m all alone and scared!” That was all it took. Gabe slammed on the brakes. “Celeste is in danger. I have to go to her.” His eyes were frantic with worry. “Gabe! We’re on the elevated highway! In this rain, how am I supposed to get home?” I grabbed his arm, my voice trembling. A sharp, unfamiliar pain had just seized my abdomen. “My stomach hurts too, Gabe! My ba—” “Enough!” He roughly threw my hand off. “Celeste is genuinely frail! Are you seriously going to lie about a pregnancy just to stop me? That’s disgusting, Adora!” He unbuckled his seatbelt, opened the door, and physically dragged me out. “The house is barely two miles from here. Call a cab! Celeste can’t wait!” He climbed back into the driver’s seat, made a reckless U-turn, and vanished into the curtain of rain. I stumbled, my phone flying from my hand and instantly crushed under a passing tire. I could only clutch my aching abdomen, shuffling forward in the downpour. I don’t know how long I walked. Blood began to run down my legs, staining the rainwater in the street before being washed away. Finally, I collapsed on the curb. It was a stranger who called the ambulance. I woke from the dream with a sharp gasp, sitting bolt upright. Instinctively, I placed a hand over my flat belly. Beside me, Gabe was sleeping soundly. His phone on the nightstand suddenly lit up. On impulse, I picked it up. The latest message was from Celeste. It was a picture. She was wearing one of Gabe’s oversized, white dress shirts, the hem covering her thighs, her eyes gazing suggestively into the camera. The text: “Missing you, Daddy Gabe. The shirt smells just like you. Hurry back. ” I felt no rage. Only a wave of nausea, so overwhelming that I ran into the bathroom and dry-heaved over the toilet. I sat on the cold porcelain toilet lid. I checked the date on the phone. Twenty-four hours left. I unlocked my own phone and began the meticulous process of deleting every memory connected to him from the cloud. Five years of my life. Thousands of photos. Select, delete, empty the recycling bin. As dawn broke, I got up and prepared a large, elaborate breakfast. Gabe was surprised to see the full table. His mood instantly improved. He walked over and squeezed my hand. “You didn’t have to, honey. Thank you.” He clearly believed I was still the Adora who loved him in spite of everything. He thought this past week had just been a minor mood swing, a hiccup that would pass. As we ate, he casually mentioned: “Hey, don’t forget to watch my live business interview at noon. I have a little surprise for you.” “Oh,” I replied nonchalantly. “It’s our fifth anniversary, Adora.” A smug look crossed his face. “I’m going to make a major public gesture. A big gift.” I smiled and nodded. “I’ll be sure to watch.” 4 Before he left, Gabe emphasized it one last time. “You have to watch the live stream, Adora.” The moment the front door closed, the smile evaporated from my face. I called the moving service coordinator. “You can come up now.” A few workers came and went, emptying the apartment of everything that belonged to me. My clothes, my books, my shoes, even the toothbrush cup I had used for three years. Anything that couldn’t be taken was thrown out. Noon. I was sitting in the back of a taxi headed for the airport. On my phone screen, Gabe sat in the broadcast studio, looking powerful and dashing. The host chuckled. “Mr. Thorne, I hear today is a very special day?” A VCR montage started playing on the screen. It was a highlight reel of our five years together—a quick cut of our wedding, vacations, and quiet moments. He had clearly put some effort into this “surprise.” Gabe looked directly into the camera, a practiced look of deep affection on his face. “Yes. Today is my wife’s and my fifth wedding anniversary. I wanted to take this opportunity to thank her for all her patience and devotion over the years…” Gabe’s sentence broke off mid-way. The camera suddenly rattled and swung. The view shifted to the front row of the audience. A woman in a white dress, clutching her stomach and looking deathly pale, had slumped to the floor. It was Celeste Price. Gabe’s expression completely shattered. Ignoring the live broadcast, he vaulted from the stage. “Celeste! Celeste, what’s wrong? Don’t panic! I’m here! I’ll get you to the hospital right now!” He lifted her into his arms, knocking over a nearby camera, and sprinted out of the studio. The live stream went silent for a moment before the chat screen exploded. [WTF? What just happened? Did the CEO just… run off?!] [Who was the girl in the white dress? She looked so fragile. The way he picked her up was pure movie romance!] [Is everyone blind? What day is it? Their five-year anniversary! That must have been Mrs. Thorne! She’s probably pregnant!] Someone set the pace, and the thousands of comments instantly shifted tone. [OMG, this is what real rich-guy love looks like! He was so worried! That look in his eyes was lethal!] [It has to be his wife and baby! I saw her holding her belly! This is so romantic!] [Ugh, I’m swooning! Billionaire romance IRL!] I watched the chat scroll up the screen, then I closed the live stream. I pulled the SIM card—the one that had held my life for the past five years—out of my phone. I snapped it in half, rolled down the window, and tossed the pieces out into the city traffic. The taxi arrived at the airport curb. A voice announced the final call for my flight. I pulled my suitcase, looked back at the gray, indifferent city one last time. My second phone vibrated in my pocket. A new message. “Text me when you land. I’m waiting outside the arrivals terminal.”