He Chose Her Over Us

Name: He Chose Her Over Us
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Gavin

Short stories | Completed

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I nursed my husband back from a coma, pregnant with the child I thought would complete our perfect life. Then his ex-girlfriend reappeared, also claiming to be pregnant with his baby. During a staged kidnapping, he made his choice. He offered me and our unborn child to the kidnappers in exchange for her. He watched me fall, saw the blood staining the concrete, and walked away to save the woman who was lying to him. He thought he was leaving me to die. But I survived. And the first thing I told my rescuer was, "I'm thinking of changing my baby's father."

Betrayal Revenge Pregnancy Divorce Love triangle

Chapter 13

09-30 13:55

Chapter 1

I nursed my husband back from a coma, pregnant with the child I thought would complete our perfect life. Then his ex-girlfriend reappeared, also claiming to be pregnant with his baby.

During a staged kidnapping, he made his choice.

He offered me and our unborn child to the kidnappers in exchange for her.

He watched me fall, saw the blood staining the concrete, and walked away to save the woman who was lying to him.

He thought he was leaving me to die.

But I survived. And the first thing I told my rescuer was, "I'm thinking of changing my baby's father."

Chapter 1

Belen Porter POV:

"I' m thinking of changing my baby' s father."

The words left my mouth before I could stop them, hanging in the quiet space between me and Camden Montoya. They sounded insane. Delusional, even. But the hollow ache in my chest told me they were the most honest thing I' d said in months.

Camden didn' t flinch. He just looked at me, his gaze steady and serious from the other side of the wrought-iron patio table. Years of friendship had taught me to read every nuance in his expression. There was no judgment, no shock, only a quiet, unwavering focus.

"Okay," he said, his voice a low baritone that had always been my anchor. "Tell me what you need."

That was the thing about Camden. He didn't ask "why" or "how." He asked "what."

My phone buzzed on the table, a stark, unwelcome intrusion. A news alert. I didn't need to read it. I knew what it would say. The headline was probably already splashed across every screen in the country: Tech Mogul Gregory Velazquez and Mystery Woman: A Rekindled Flame?

I watched a single, perfect photo load. My husband, Gregory, his arm wrapped protectively around a fragile-looking woman. Her tear-streaked face was buried in his chest, his bespoke suit jacket draped over her thin shoulders. It was a picture of devotion. A picture of a man saving the woman he loved.

The woman he loved was not me.

My phone buzzed again. A text from Camden, even though he was sitting right in front of me.

You don' t have to look at that, Belen.

I forced a smile that felt like cracking glass. "It' s a little late for that."

The image was seared into my mind, a permanent scar on top of the wound that had been ripped open just last night.

The Velazquez Foundation Charity Gala was the social event of the season. I stood beside Gregory, my hand resting on my subtly swelling stomach, a symbol of our perfect life. He was the self-made tech billionaire, the man who had clawed his way up from nothing. I was Belen Porter, the heiress who had stood by him, who had held his hand for months while he lay in a coma, whispering stories of the future we would build.

The charity auction was the night's main event-rare wines, exotic vacations, priceless art. Then, the auctioneer announced a special, final item. Not an object, but a cause. A "humanitarian bid," he called it. The curtains parted, and a spotlight illuminated a woman standing on the stage.

She was thin, almost skeletal, dressed in clothes that were clean but worn. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with a terror that seemed almost theatrical. She was a ghost from a past I had only heard about, a story Gregory had told me in hushed, guilt-ridden tones.

Adrianna Page. His ex-girlfriend from before the money, before the coma, before me.

The auctioneer told a sob story of a woman who had fallen on hard times, a woman who had lost everything and needed a second chance. The starting bid was for a fund to get her back on her feet.

I felt Gregory stiffen beside me. A low, guttural sound escaped his throat. His knuckles were white where he gripped his champagne flute. It was the sound of a man seeing a ghost.

The story was that Adrianna had been driving the car the night of the accident that put Gregory in a coma. She' d vanished afterward, consumed by guilt. Gregory had always carried that guilt, believing he had ruined her life.

He looked at me, his eyes pleading. "Belen, I..."

"Don' t," I whispered, my voice tight.

But he was already moving. He strode toward the stage, his every step echoing in the suddenly silent ballroom. He didn' t raise a bidding paddle. He didn' t offer money. He offered himself.

He took the microphone from the stunned auctioneer. "The bidding is over," he announced, his voice ringing with an authority no one dared to question. "I will take care of her. Whatever she needs, for as long as she needs it. That is my promise."

A collective gasp swept through the room. He walked onto the stage, took off his thousand-dollar jacket, and wrapped it around Adrianna' s trembling shoulders. The camera flashes were blinding, a barrage of explosions capturing my public humiliation.

Adrianna collapsed into his arms, sobbing. He held her, stroking her hair, whispering words I couldn' t hear but could feel like a physical blow. He was comforting her. Protecting her. From a world that I was a part of.

I walked to the edge of the stage, my heels sinking slightly into the plush carpet. "Gregory," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "What are you doing?"

He looked at me, and for a second, I saw a flicker of the man I married. A flicker of guilt. "Belen, it' s not what it looks like. This is... this is about my past. I owe her."

He turned his back on me and guided Adrianna off the stage, shielding her from the prying eyes of the press, leaving me alone in the spotlight.

I didn' t cry. I didn' t scream. I followed them.

I found them in a small, private lounge off the main hall. The door was slightly ajar. I stood in the shadows, my heart pounding a frantic, painful rhythm against my ribs.

Gregory was holding her hands, his back to me. "Are you okay, Adrianna? I was so worried. When I heard you were back..."

"I missed you, Greg," she whispered, her voice thick with tears. "Every single day."

"I missed you too," he said, the words a dagger twisting in my gut. "I have a penthouse downtown. You can stay there. I' ll give you a credit card, anything you need. Just... be safe."

He was giving her a home. He was giving her money. He was giving her the security he had promised me.

Then, she leaned in and kissed him.

It wasn't a long kiss. It wasn't passionate. It was soft, lingering, and full of a shared history that I could never penetrate. And he didn't pull away. For a split second, his hand came up to cup her face, his thumb stroking her cheek.

The world tilted on its axis. The man I loved, the father of my child, was gone. In his place was a stranger, kissing another woman while I stood just feet away.

I backed away from the door, my movements stiff and robotic. I walked out of the gala, past the curious stares and whispered rumors, and I didn't look back.

Now, sitting across from Camden, the morning sun felt too bright, too cheerful for the wreckage of my life. I looked down at the news alert on my phone one last time. The picture. The embrace. The lie.

My decision was made.

My phone buzzed again. Another text from Camden.

The guesthouse is ready. Has been for years. Just say the word.

I took a deep breath, the air burning my lungs. I typed my reply, a single word that held the weight of my past and the fragile hope for my future.

"Okay."