His Other Baby

His Other Baby

Gavin

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I was heavily pregnant, nesting hard, and snagged some amazing Black Friday deals for our first baby. My husband, Mark, always seemed so supportive, or so I thought. I' m meticulous with money, kept my spreadsheet ready to pay my share. But then he saw the total on our joint credit card. His smile vanished, replaced by an accusing glare. "What' s this $200 charge? You're trying to hide something, aren't you? Trying to defraud me." The words echoed as he cornered me in Target, shoving my cart until baby diapers spilled everywhere. Then Tiffany appeared, Mark's "grieving widow" friend, who conveniently stumbled when I recoiled from her perfume. Mark erupted, slapping me across the face, roaring, "Did you just push a pregnant woman, Sarah?!" My water broke, but he ignored my pleas, insisting we go to customer service to dispute the $200. That $200 I' d Venmo'd to Tiffany months ago, to help her out. I collapsed. Later, in the hospital, recovering from an emergency C-section, I overheard him. He wasn't asking about our daughter, fighting for her life in the NICU. He was arranging a private room for Tiffany, who was also in labor. He casually dismissed our daughter's critical condition: "She'll be fine, they' re tough." The man I married had vanished, replaced by a cold stranger. How could he abandon me, prioritizing a seeming stranger over his own family? Why was Tiffany here, also in labor? The betrayal was sickening, leaving a gaping hole in my heart. Then, a hidden folder in his office revealed the horrifying truth. Prenatal records. Sonograms. Tiffany' s due date, identical to mine, linked directly to Mark' s vague "business trip." He wasn't just supporting a friend; he was the father of her child. Our marriage, our baby, everything was a lie. My grief hardened into an icy resolve: I called the best divorce attorney in the city.

Introduction

I was heavily pregnant, nesting hard, and snagged some amazing Black Friday deals for our first baby.

My husband, Mark, always seemed so supportive, or so I thought.

I' m meticulous with money, kept my spreadsheet ready to pay my share.

But then he saw the total on our joint credit card.

His smile vanished, replaced by an accusing glare.

"What' s this $200 charge? You're trying to hide something, aren't you? Trying to defraud me."

The words echoed as he cornered me in Target, shoving my cart until baby diapers spilled everywhere.

Then Tiffany appeared, Mark's "grieving widow" friend, who conveniently stumbled when I recoiled from her perfume.

Mark erupted, slapping me across the face, roaring, "Did you just push a pregnant woman, Sarah?!"

My water broke, but he ignored my pleas, insisting we go to customer service to dispute the $200.

That $200 I' d Venmo'd to Tiffany months ago, to help her out.

I collapsed.

Later, in the hospital, recovering from an emergency C-section, I overheard him.

He wasn't asking about our daughter, fighting for her life in the NICU.

He was arranging a private room for Tiffany, who was also in labor.

He casually dismissed our daughter's critical condition: "She'll be fine, they' re tough."

The man I married had vanished, replaced by a cold stranger.

How could he abandon me, prioritizing a seeming stranger over his own family?

Why was Tiffany here, also in labor?

The betrayal was sickening, leaving a gaping hole in my heart.

Then, a hidden folder in his office revealed the horrifying truth.

Prenatal records. Sonograms.

Tiffany' s due date, identical to mine, linked directly to Mark' s vague "business trip."

He wasn't just supporting a friend; he was the father of her child.

Our marriage, our baby, everything was a lie.

My grief hardened into an icy resolve: I called the best divorce attorney in the city.

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My world revolved around Jax Harding, my older brother's captivating rockstar friend. From sixteen, I adored him; at eighteen, I clung to his casual promise: "When you're 22, maybe I'll settle down." That offhand comment became my life's beacon, guiding every choice, meticulously planning my twenty-second birthday as our destiny. But on that pivotal day in a Lower East Side bar, clutching my gift, my dream exploded. I overheard Jax' s cold voice: "Can't believe Savvy's showing up. She' s still hung up on that stupid thing I said." Then the crushing plot: "We' re gonna tell Savvy I' m engaged to Chloe, maybe even hint she' s pregnant. That should scare her off." My gift, my future, slipped from my numb fingers. I fled into the cold New York rain, devastated by betrayal. Later, Jax introduced Chloe as his "fiancée" while his bandmates mocked my "adorable crush"-he did nothing. As an art installation fell, he saved Chloe, abandoning me to severe injury. In the hospital, he came for "damage control," then shockingly shoved me into a fountain, leaving me to bleed, calling me a "jealous psycho." How could the man I loved, who once saved me, become this cruel and publicly humiliate me? Why was my devotion seen as an annoyance to be brutally extinguished with lies and assault? Was I just a problem, my loyalty met with hatred? I would not be his victim. Injured and betrayed, I made an unshakeable vow: I was done. I blocked his number and everyone connected to him, severing ties. This was not an escape; this was my rebirth. Florence awaited, a new life on my terms, unburdened by broken promises.

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