Viral Betrayal: A Wife's Agony

Gavin

Modern | Completed

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My husband Jeremy crashed a wedding for his ex, Donnie, and the video went viral. I was at home, pregnant and making his favorite lasagna, when I saw him screaming about saving her from the groom. This wasn't the first time. Three years ago, his obsession with playing her hero cost me our first baby. He swore it would never happen again. He had promised to be there for my prenatal check-up, but he abandoned me to rescue her instead. When he finally came home that night, he fell to his knees, crying and begging for another chance, just like he did before. He looked pathetic. But this time, I felt nothing but a cold, hollow emptiness. The woman who loved him was already dead. I looked him straight in the eye and calmly delivered the final blow. "I had an abortion today. The baby is gone." "Sign the papers, Jeremy."

Divorce Rebirth Divorce Pregnancy Personal growth

Chapter 12

12-03 17:47

Chapter 1

My husband Jeremy crashed a wedding for his ex, Donnie, and the video went viral. I was at home, pregnant and making his favorite lasagna, when I saw him screaming about saving her from the groom.

This wasn't the first time. Three years ago, his obsession with playing her hero cost me our first baby. He swore it would never happen again.

He had promised to be there for my prenatal check-up, but he abandoned me to rescue her instead.

When he finally came home that night, he fell to his knees, crying and begging for another chance, just like he did before. He looked pathetic.

But this time, I felt nothing but a cold, hollow emptiness. The woman who loved him was already dead.

I looked him straight in the eye and calmly delivered the final blow.

"I had an abortion today. The baby is gone."

"Sign the papers, Jeremy."

Chapter 1

My phone vibrated, buzzing against the tile counter where I was kneading dough. It was Sarah, my best friend, her name flashing like an emergency beacon. I wiped my flour-dusted hands on my apron, a small smile playing on my lips. Jeremy would be home soon, and I was making his favorite lasagna. Life felt, for the most part, perfect.

"Chelsey, have you seen TikTok?" Sarah's voice was a frantic whisper, laced with a strange mix of shock and disbelief.

I chuckled, picking up a stray strand of hair. "No, why? Did another cat video go viral?"

"No, Chelsey, not a cat video! It's... it's Jeremy."

My smile vanished. My hand froze mid-air, the dough cold and heavy beneath my fingers. "Jeremy? What about Jeremy?"

A beat of silence. Then, a torrent of words. "There's a video. It's everywhere. He crashed a wedding. Donnie Decker's wedding."

The name hit me like a physical blow. Donnie. After all this time. My stomach lurched.

"He was yelling, Chelsey. About saving her. From that poor groom." Sarah's voice dropped. "Chelsey, is he... is he back with her?"

My phone, suddenly heavy in my hand, started to ping, an endless barrage of notifications. Text messages, DMs, missed calls, all blinking furiously. My social media feeds were exploding. The video. Everyone was talking about it.

My friends were calling, asking if I was okay. Strangers were tagging me, offering condolences mixed with thinly veiled judgment. There were hashtags trending: #WeddingCrash, #SaviorComplex, #DixonDonnieDrama.

I scrolled, my thumb numb. The video quality was grainy, shaky, filmed by a guest who was probably more entertained than horrified. Jeremy, my husband, was indeed there. He was a whirlwind of rage and desperation, his usually composed face contorted, veins bulging in his neck. He was shouting, something about love, about saving her from a mistake. Donnie, in a white dress, looked terrified, then strangely... expectant. The groom, a bewildered man in an ill-fitting tux, tried to intervene, but Jeremy pushed him aside like he was nothing.

The air left my lungs. It was happening again. Three years. It had been three years since the last time Jeremy' s "heroics" had torn my world apart. The pattern, stark and undeniable, was repeating itself.

I remembered the comments from that time, too.

"Isn't that the guy who got into that bar fight? The one with the crazy girlfriend?"

The video had comments, thousands of them already. "OMG, this guy again?" one read. "He's genuinely unhinged." Another said, "Remember that story from three years ago? The one where he nearly went to jail for defending her honor? This is the same woman!"

"He once told me he'd burn the world down for her," a comment from an unknown user read, "literally. He said she was his soulmate, his true calling."

"This is like a bad novel," someone else wrote. "You can't make this stuff up."

I stood there, phone in hand, absorbed in the digital cacophony, the cries of outrage and amusement. The lasagna forgotten. The smell of burning tomato sauce filled the kitchen. I looked down. The ceramic pot had cracked, a jagged line running from rim to base. Hot, bubbling red sauce oozed onto my bare foot.

I didn't feel it. Not really. The scalding liquid was a dull throb next to the ice-cold numbness spreading through my chest.

My fingers, strangely steady, dialed Jeremy' s number. It rang once, twice, three times, then went straight to voicemail. "The subscriber you dialed is temporarily unavailable..." the automated voice chirped.

I laughed. A hollow, brittle sound that scratched at my throat. It wasn't funny. Nothing was funny.

This morning, Jeremy had kissed me goodbye, cradling my belly. "I love you, Chelsey. I love us," he' d whispered, "I'll be back early, just in time for your prenatal check-up. And that lasagna. Don't forget the lasagna."

He had made so many promises. So many vows. "I will never hurt you again, Chelsey. Never. Our baby deserves a whole family, a loving father."

I didn' t feel the sharp spike of pain, the burning betrayal I expected. It was just an emptiness. Like someone had scooped out my insides and left me hollow. The most desperate moment, the kind that rips your soul to shreds, had already happened three years ago. I survived that. I would survive this.

I calmly placed my phone back on the counter. The kitchen was a mess: flour everywhere, burnt sauce sizzling on the stove. I cleaned it all. Methodically. Efficiently. The broken pot went straight into the trash.

Then, I picked up the phone again. Not to call Jeremy. I dialed the hospital.

"Hello? I'd like to cancel my prenatal appointment for tomorrow." My voice was flat, devoid of emotion. "And I'd like to schedule... another procedure. As soon as possible."