His Secret Child, My Shattered Dreams

Name: His Secret Child, My Shattered Dreams
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Gavin

Short stories | Completed

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The hiss of my espresso machine was a familiar comfort, a stark contrast to the storm brewing inside me. For five years, my marriage to Ethan, a renowned OB/GYN, was built on a promise: no kids, just us. My childhood trauma, the sterile scent of a hospital from losing my sister in childbirth, etched a deep fear in my soul. But I loved Ethan, enough to face my deepest fear. I secretly stopped my birth control, and this morning, two pink lines screamed hope. I bought tiny white sneakers, drove to his clinic, my heart pounding with dreams of his joy. Then I saw him through the window. His hand wasn' t on a chart, but on Chloe Davis, a pregnant intern' s, swollen belly. His head was bent low, his expression tenderness I' d only dreamed of. And on her wrist, a silver key charm-the matching half to my anniversary locket. The gift box slipped, the sneakers tumbling onto the dirty concrete. He came home later, all smiles for his "rough pregnancy" patient. "Who is she, Ethan?" I asked, my voice flat. He fed me a practiced lie, but I'd seen him. I'd seen the key. He confessed it had been going on for a year, a year of endless lies. The conferences, the late nights, all of it a sickening charade. "My parents... the pressure for a grandchild," he stammered, painting me as the villain. His words were a physical blow, turning my pain into pure fury. That night, my world crumbled further as his parents, Richard and Eleanor Hayes, swept into my home. "To think you would suggest terminating our grandchild," Eleanor sneered, revealing their cruel plot: they had orchestrated Chloe and Ethan' s affair to secure a grandchild. Then, she tagged me in an Instagram post-a beaming Chloe, a sonogram, Ethan' s arm around her. "Welcoming our grandson, Arthur Hayes," the caption read, stealing the name I' d whispered to Ethan in a moment of shared dreams. Chloe burst in, screaming accusations of my trying to ruin her life, then feigned a dramatic fall at my feet. Ethan kneeled, cradling her, then looked up at me, his face contorted in rage. "You're insane? You're trying to kill my child!" he screamed. The sharp, twisting pain in my abdomen returned, more intense than ever. A warm, wet sensation spread, staining my pants. Blood. My baby. Our baby. The one I had dared to hope for. They were all focused on Chloe, the fake victim. No one saw me, clutching my stomach, as my life' s greatest hope bled out onto the floor. I was completely, utterly alone in my loss.

Betrayal Revenge Pregnancy Divorce Drama

Chapter 10

07-04 12:05

Introduction

The hiss of my espresso machine was a familiar comfort, a stark contrast to the storm brewing inside me.

For five years, my marriage to Ethan, a renowned OB/GYN, was built on a promise: no kids, just us. My childhood trauma, the sterile scent of a hospital from losing my sister in childbirth, etched a deep fear in my soul.

But I loved Ethan, enough to face my deepest fear.

I secretly stopped my birth control, and this morning, two pink lines screamed hope.

I bought tiny white sneakers, drove to his clinic, my heart pounding with dreams of his joy.

Then I saw him through the window.

His hand wasn' t on a chart, but on Chloe Davis, a pregnant intern' s, swollen belly.

His head was bent low, his expression tenderness I' d only dreamed of.

And on her wrist, a silver key charm-the matching half to my anniversary locket.

The gift box slipped, the sneakers tumbling onto the dirty concrete.

He came home later, all smiles for his "rough pregnancy" patient.

"Who is she, Ethan?" I asked, my voice flat.

He fed me a practiced lie, but I'd seen him.

I'd seen the key.

He confessed it had been going on for a year, a year of endless lies.

The conferences, the late nights, all of it a sickening charade.

"My parents... the pressure for a grandchild," he stammered, painting me as the villain.

His words were a physical blow, turning my pain into pure fury.

That night, my world crumbled further as his parents, Richard and Eleanor Hayes, swept into my home.

"To think you would suggest terminating our grandchild," Eleanor sneered, revealing their cruel plot: they had orchestrated Chloe and Ethan' s affair to secure a grandchild.

Then, she tagged me in an Instagram post-a beaming Chloe, a sonogram, Ethan' s arm around her.

"Welcoming our grandson, Arthur Hayes," the caption read, stealing the name I' d whispered to Ethan in a moment of shared dreams.

Chloe burst in, screaming accusations of my trying to ruin her life, then feigned a dramatic fall at my feet.

Ethan kneeled, cradling her, then looked up at me, his face contorted in rage.

"You're insane? You're trying to kill my child!" he screamed.

The sharp, twisting pain in my abdomen returned, more intense than ever.

A warm, wet sensation spread, staining my pants. Blood.

My baby. Our baby. The one I had dared to hope for.

They were all focused on Chloe, the fake victim.

No one saw me, clutching my stomach, as my life' s greatest hope bled out onto the floor.

I was completely, utterly alone in my loss.