He Killed My Healthy Baby To Keep Me

The day after my D&C, I was scrolling through a late-night forum when I came across a thread. “What’s your partner’s ultimate Get-Out-of-Jail-Free Card?” I paused, typing out a response: “The time he shielded me during the Ariel City Collapse…” But then, a newer, explosive comment snagged my attention. “I’m a high-end companion, and I’ve found true love. He’s gorgeous, loaded, and booked me for thirty years straight. He’s obsessed, keeps my legs shaking and my back aching!” “His death immunity? Easy. His wife finally got pregnant after years of grueling IVF, and I just casually mentioned I didn’t want some kid competing with me for his attention. So, he forged the NIPT report, convinced her the baby had Trisomy 21, and pressured her into a late-term abortion.” She followed it up with a picture. Under the dim, expensive bar lighting, a man’s large, clearly defined hand was wrapped tightly around the woman’s waist. “He can’t even sleep unless he’s holding me now, honestly. He’s utterly dependent.” My entire body went cold. Every drop of blood in my veins solidified when I saw the jagged, pale scar that ran across the back of the man’s hand. It was the exact, unmistakable scar my husband, Hudson Miller, had gotten saving me during the collapse. … 1 The comments section was a battlefield of rage. Instead of shame, the woman—who went by “ZoeyLane” on the platform—doubled down, flaunting her conquest with venomous arrogance. “I’m the other woman? Funny. The one who isn’t loved is the real third wheel, sweetie! I’ll do anything for true love—what’s wrong with that? You’re all just jealous I snagged such a high-value man.” When someone agreed with her, she replied, ecstatic: “See? You get it, babe! His wife has fertility issues; that kid was her last shot after five years of IVF. She cried and prayed for that baby, and I made him get rid of it with a single sentence. If that’s not true love, what is?” “His wife will never get pregnant again naturally, but he promised me I’m the only one who will ever bear his child.” “LOL. I’ll share my experience once I’m settled in the penthouse. Gotta go now—he’s calling for me. Time to go satisfy my man.” I stared, rigid, at the screen, a core of ice forming in my chest. Just a week ago, I was at home, resting, trying to hold onto my five-month pregnancy. Hudson had returned with a look of utter defeat, handing me the printout. The diagnosis: positive for Down Syndrome. My world shattered then. I’d collapsed onto the floor, screaming until my throat was raw, begging Hudson if there was any way—any way—to save the baby. He had held me, his face buried in my hair, his eyes red and wet. “Sia, it’s the amnio report. It’s definitive. We can’t bring a child into this world just to suffer. We have to terminate.” He had held my hand through the entire procedure. My five-month-old baby—the one I’d waited five years for—became a mangled mess of tissue and blood. For the past week, I’d been a ghost, the grief a physical, suffocating weight. Hudson had canceled everything, hovering over me until today, when he finally felt my emotional state had stabilized enough to go back to the office. Staring at that picture, I dug my nails into my palm, biting my tongue until I tasted copper. Only pain could alleviate the choking terror. Once the initial shock passed, I did the only thing I could: I followed ZoeyLane’s account. Then, I sent Hudson a text. “Still at the office?” He replied instantly: “Yeah, swamped. Why, babe?” I didn’t reply. I called an Uber and headed straight for his office downtown. Years of love, decades of history—I couldn’t let a few toxic comments destroy that. I needed to see his face. I needed to know. I ran into his assistant, Ben, in the lobby. “Mrs. Miller? You’re here?” Ben looked genuinely surprised. I didn’t speak, just brushed past him and entered the private elevator, riding it up to Hudson’s executive floor. I pushed the door open. The scene I expected—an empty office, proving his lie—was not what I found. Hudson was there, seated behind his vast mahogany desk, his expression sharp and focused. When he heard the door, he looked up, his brow lifting in surprise. His tone was light, playful. “Well, hello, Mrs. Miller. What’s this? Checking up on your husband? Didn’t think you were the ‘pop-in’ type.” Seeing his familiar face, the agonizing tension I’d carried all the way across the city finally broke. Relief and agonizing regret flooded through me. My eyes burned, and I started, instinctively, to walk toward him, ready to collapse into his arms. “Don’t come closer!” Hudson’s sudden, hoarse shout cut me off. I froze. He was pinching the bridge of his nose, his face contorted in discomfort. “Seriously, sweetie. I think I’ve caught that brutal flu that’s going around. You’re recovering from surgery; your immune system is shot. Don’t get near me.” He really did look terrible. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his breathing was shallow and rapid, and his face was flushed a deep red. He was issuing low, strained groans. My heart immediately went out to him. “Hudson, maybe we should go to the ER. You look terrible.” But then, my gaze drifted to the side. The vast, glossy glass wall that overlooked Ariel City was a perfect mirror. And in the reflection, I saw a woman’s head, partially obscured beneath his desk. 2 A chill, more profound than any fear, started at the base of my spine and crept up to the roots of my hair, freezing my tears in place. It took every ounce of my self-control not to scream. “You know what? Never mind. I just got a sharp, stabbing pain in my side. I think… I need to go home.” Without waiting for his response, I fled. It wasn’t a walk—it was a frantic escape. The moment I hit the street, I realized it was pouring rain. My foot slipped, and I hit the pavement, landing hard in a puddle. I didn’t care about the cold or the pain in my hip. It was nothing compared to the agony in my chest. The phone vibrated. It was Zoey. She had posted a new video with a caption: “Daddy’s so smart. He knew his wife would check up on him, so he had his assistant warn us. Not that I was scared. Right under her nose—it was the hottest thing ever.” I clicked the video. Her voice, a low, playful purr, filled the audio. “Was that thrilling, Baby? Having your wife right there?” “Stop messing around,” the man’s voice, raw and strained, chided her. “We were almost discovered.” But beneath the harsh tone, a tremor of undeniable affection and pride was present. I bit down on my lip until the metallic taste of my own blood coated my tongue. Soaked to the bone, I made it back to the house and called the hospital. “Hello. I’m calling about the amniocentesis report I had two weeks ago. I just wanted to confirm there were no administrative issues.” The nurse’s voice was gentle, professional. “Oh, yes, Mrs. Cole. Everything was perfectly fine. The baby was perfectly healthy. Didn’t you see the report? It was emailed directly to your husband.” The baby was perfectly healthy. Those five words, light as air, felt like five separate shards of glass stabbing into my heart. A tidal wave of nausea hit me. I slammed the phone down and ran to the bathroom, vomiting until I was dizzy and weak. Five years of IVF. Over five hundred needles. The endless hope. The daily, desperate prayers for a child. All of it—a monstrous, elaborate joke. The malice of it climbed over my skin. Huddled over the toilet, I laughed and cried, a manic, broken sound. I eventually took a scalding shower, then retreated to the bedroom to search Zoey’s account. Her early posts were typical of an escort—highly curated, provocative photos. But the ones related to Hudson—Zoey’s “Daddy”—were the poison. One, from a year ago: She posted a picture of an employee badge. Zoey Lane. The caption: “Landed a new gig! Time to clock in with my investor!” Another, six months ago: It was our wedding anniversary. Hudson had told me he was stuck at the office. I scrolled through Zoey’s feed and saw a picture of him with her—not at the office, but on a weekend getaway in Laguna Beach. The caption was a kissy face emoji. That night, he’d brought home my favorite takeout—which I now realized was their leftovers. The phone screen went dark, reflecting my tear-streaked face. Hudson came home late. “Still awake? Does your stomach still hurt?” The moment his hand touched my arm, I flinched away. He frowned, a flash of impatience crossing his features. “What now, Sia? I’m exhausted. We can’t do this tonight. Save the drama for tomorrow. I need to sleep.” After he fell into a deep, heavy sleep, I reached for the phone on his nightstand. I typed my birthday. Password Incorrect. The rejection felt like a slap. Desperation fueling me, I found Zoey’s birthdate on one of her public profiles. I typed it in. Unlocked. In his messages, the contact “Baby Zo” was pinned to the top. I scrolled up. The filth was endless. Three days ago: “Baby, can’t you sneak away tonight? Your miserable wife is being such a warden.” “Easy, Baby. Just a few more days. She can’t be left alone right now.” This morning: “I need you now. I’m wearing the sheer silk set you love. Hurry.” 3 I tortured myself, reading every word. I clamped my jaws shut, but a choked sob escaped anyway. Next to me, Hudson woke instantly and, practically in his sleep, pulled me against his chest, stroking my hair. “What is it, sweetie? Still upset about the baby? I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.” His embrace was warm, his hand, with that brutal, jagged scar, was steady on my back. My mind spun back to the Ariel City Collapse. The teenaged Hudson, running toward me through the dust-choked air, throwing himself on top of me. The boulder that crashed onto his arm. He hadn’t made a sound, but his hot, dark blood had splashed onto my cheek. We’d been trapped for two days. He was in agony, every breath a struggle, yet he kept whispering, over and over: “Sia, don’t be afraid. We’re getting out. If I… if I can’t hold on, you drink my blood, you eat my flesh. Just promise me you’ll survive.” He loved me so desperately then. The memory, The Defining Moment, had been my Golden Ticket for him, granting him eternal absolution. How did everything change so completely? I lay there, stiff in his arms, watching the sky lighten. At breakfast, I asked him a casual question. “Do you know a Zoey Lane?” Hudson’s body tensed, but he recovered instantly, spooning me a bowl of oatmeal. His tone was dismissive. “Yeah. Ben’s been swamped, so she’s a new administrative assistant. Why?” His attempt at indifference was perfect. I decided, in that moment, to give him one last chance, for the sake of that teenage boy in the rubble. I took a spoonful of the oatmeal and said, my voice cold, “Fire her. I don’t like her.” Hudson frowned, his mask slipping. “She’s just a glorified runner. Is that really necessary?” “Yes. It is necessary. I don’t want her here.” “CRASH—” Hudson slammed his ceramic bowl down. Shards scattered, one nicking my cheek and drawing blood. His voice was suddenly shrill, enraged. “You don’t like her? What the hell did she do? She’s a perfectly normal, hardworking assistant. I have bent over backward to accommodate your grief, but are you seriously being this ridiculous, Sierra? You’re demanding I fire an innocent woman just because she’s a woman? You’re going to empty out the entire company of female staff just to appease your paranoia?” My ears rang. In all our years together, this was the first time Hudson had ever exploded at me. His face was a mask of pure hate. I stared at him, my eyes welling up. “Funny. Are you touching your conscience when you say you two are innocent? Is she your assistant, or your goddamn…” “Enough!” Hudson violently shoved the entire table, sending dishes flying. His eyes were full of contempt. “I think your anxiety is flaring up again. It’s the depression. You’re being delusional and irrational! Always looking for a problem!” He grabbed his keys and stormed out, slamming the door. I sank to the floor, my heart hammering. Depression. That word was my deepest trauma. Years ago, when we first moved to Ariel City, Hudson’s fledgling architecture firm was just taking off, only to have his work stolen. In my panic to save him from financial ruin, I went to confront the thief. In the ensuing struggle, I fell down a flight of stairs and lost our first baby. That was the first time I saw Hudson truly break. He knelt by my hospital bed, sobbing, snot and tears mixing, whispering desperate apologies. That loss triggered my clinical depression. I was inconsolable, constantly harming myself, unable to cope with the loss of the child. Hudson lost his work. He drove for GrubHub during the day and nursed me back to health at night. Later, the original manuscript was recovered, his name was cleared, and he started his own firm. My depression slowly faded, but the injury to my abdomen left me unable to carry a child without medical assistance. It was the darkest period of my life. I never imagined the man who offered to sacrifice his life for mine in the rubble would one day intentionally kill our second child. And then use the memory of my deepest pain—my depression—to stab me again. I wiped my tears and walked into the study. I needed to print the divorce papers. The Golden Ticket had finally expired. 4 I wanted a quiet ending. But Zoey wouldn’t allow it. She sent a friend request with a chilling message: I’m pregnant. My face went white. I clenched my fists and accepted the request. She immediately sent several messages, starting with a copy of a prenatal scan. “Three weeks along. Guess those expired contraceptives did the trick. Unlike you, Ms. Cole, my little one is naturally conceived. A golden child.” “Honestly, I wasn’t planning on getting pregnant so fast, but here we are. You should do Hudson a favor and file for divorce. He’s ecstatic about this baby.” “Oh, and speaking of ecstatic: Hudson is throwing a small celebration for us tomorrow at The Grand Regent Hotel. Nine AM. It’s an engagement party. You’re welcome to attend.” She attached a photo. Hudson was holding the ultrasound printout, his eyes wet, his expression the picture of tender, overwhelming love. Even when I was pregnant, he had never looked at me like that. I gripped the phone, a visceral, churning hatred spreading through me. My baby was brutally murdered, and they were celebrating their ‘true love’ with a new one. A wedding… Hudson and I hadn’t even had a proper wedding. We were too poor then. No time, no money. I swallowed down the blood in my mouth. Hudson didn’t come home that night. He only sent a text: Working late. Won’t be back. I sat in the dark living room all night. At nine the next morning, I drove to The Grand Regent Hotel. Zoey was even more radiant than in her photos. She wore a slinky white gown, and a cascade of diamonds circled her slender neck. Hudson was in a crisp dark suit, effortlessly mingling, a flute of champagne in his hand. In that moment, everything I had suppressed—the grief, the rage, the betrayal—broke. I charged the stage. In Hudson’s stunned gaze, I slapped Zoey, hard, twice. “Sierra! What the hell are you doing? Have you lost your mind?!” Hudson violently pushed me away, turning to shield Zoey in his arms. I fell, ignoring the sharp twinge in my abdomen, and scrambled up, my hand flying out to slap him across the face. Under his dark, menacing stare, I started to laugh, a wild, broken sound. “What, hurt your little girlfriend? Good. She deserved it. Both of you! This woman is a whore, a high-end escort, a rotten piece of trash who sleeps with anyone who pays her. She’s not just a mistress, she’s a…” “SMACK—” I hit the floor again. The punch knocked the words clean out of my mouth. “Shut your filthy mouth, Sierra!” Hudson’s hand was still raised. Veins bulged in his forehead; his eyes were bloodshot. “Are you crazy? This is my product launch! What is wrong with you? I told you, Zoey is an employee! You’re having a psychotic episode! Spreading vicious, disgusting lies about an innocent woman? You’re evil! You’re sick!” He grabbed my arm, forcing me down, pressing my knees onto the shards of a broken glass display. The glass dug in, searing pain shooting up my legs. Zoey whimpered behind his shoulder, but when she looked at me, her eyes were pure, smug triumph. I realized I’d been set up. This wasn’t an engagement party. This was a public launch that looked like an engagement party, designed to humiliate me and prove her victim status. Security—called by an attendee—finally wrestled me away. My hands were cuffed behind my back, my face was throbbing and bleeding, and I was pinned to the floor like a beaten dog. Hudson glanced at me, his face devoid of emotion. “Officers, she is my wife, but she deliberately assaulted this woman. I will not cover for her. Please charge her to the fullest extent of the law. She needs a harsh lesson.” “Also,” he added, his voice chillingly calm, “she has a history of severe depression and is currently unstable. After her detainment, please transfer her directly to a psychiatric facility. I will coordinate the intake.” The police hauled me up and escorted me to the cruiser. The crowd was silent, all eyes on me. I didn’t resist. I stared at Hudson. I watched him gently wipe the tears from Zoey’s face. I watched him tenderly touch her abdomen. A terrible, desolate smile spread across my face. My laughter turned into a wail, sharp with blood and tears. “Hudson! I hate you!” My vision swam. A sudden warmth spread below me, staining the pristine white marble a shocking red. “Sia!!” I heard Hudson’s desperate scream as the world went black.