A Billionaires Undoing The Night He Couldnt Forget

My pregnancy was a high-risk miracle after years of failed IVF. My husband, Aaron, seemed like the perfect partner, driving across town every night for the organic kale I craved. But I soon discovered his nightly "grocery runs" were a cover to visit his dead best friend's sister, Brie.

The ultimate betrayal came when I went into early labor. As I was fighting for our child's life, Brie called him threatening suicide. He looked at me, then at his phone, and walked out of the delivery room to save her.

I gave birth alone. Our son was stillborn.

Aaron returned hours later, not with grief, but with an excuse. "We can have another baby," he said, as if replacing a broken toy. He then announced that Brie, his fragile mistress, would be moving into our home while I was still in the hospital.

He truly believed he could have it all: the grieving wife and the mistress waiting at home.

But as I looked at the man who chose her over our dying child, the love I had for him died right there. I had a new plan.

Chapter 1

Elinor POV:

The doctor' s words were a cold, hard slap to my face. "Your pregnancy is high-risk, Elinor. Extremely high-risk." The room spun. All those years, all those IVF cycles, the pain, the hope, the endless waiting. All of it led to this. I clutched my swollen belly, feeling a flutter inside. My baby. My miracle.

Aaron, my husband, was the picture of devotion. He drove across town every night, battling rush hour traffic, just to get the specific organic kale I craved. He said it was a small price to pay for my comfort, for our baby' s health. He made me feel cherished, adored.

"Anything for my two favorite people," he' d whisper, kissing my forehead, his eyes full of love.

He' d come home late, sometimes past midnight, smelling faintly of the city and that specialty grocery store. I' d be drifting off to sleep, feeling my body ache from another day of carrying our child, and he' d slip into bed beside me. He was always tired, but he never complained. He said he was building a future for us, for our child.

"You work so hard, Aaron," I' d say, my voice thick with sleep. "You don't have to go so far for kale."

He' d just hold me tighter. "Only the best for my queen, and our little prince or princess." His voice was a soft lullaby, full of so much warmth, so much conviction. It made me believe every word.

I believed we had the perfect marriage, a picture-perfect life. Aaron, my charming, successful tech entrepreneur, and me, his architect wife, taking a pause from my career to nurture our family. We had overcome so much to get here. Infertility was a long, dark tunnel, but we found the light. This baby was our light. This perfect, glowing future felt earned.

Then came the car service. A routine check-up, nothing more. The dealership called, their tone apologetic, almost embarrassed. "Mrs. Jordan, we noticed a recurring anomaly in your car's GPS data. A 20-mile detour, every single night."

My breath hitched. "A detour? Where to?"

The mechanic hesitated. "A luxury condo building on the other side of town. It seems… unusual for a grocery run."

My world tilted. A cold dread seeped into my bones. It was silly, it had to be a mistake. Maybe he was visiting a client, or a friend. But the pit in my stomach screamed otherwise.

I don' t know how I got my hands on the dashcam footage, but I did. The video played, a silent movie of my unraveling. Aaron, my devoted husband, parking his car, not at the grocery store, but in front of that sleek, modern condo building. He would go inside, sometimes for an hour, sometimes longer.

And then, I saw her. Brie Wade.

She was young, fragile, her eyes wide and haunted. She' d cling to him, her voice a soft, broken whisper I couldn't quite make out through the muffled audio. He' d hold her, stroke her hair, his face etched with a concern I had never seen directed at me. Not like that. Not with that raw, desperate intensity.

The video showed him leaving, her tears following him to the car. Then, he' d drive to the grocery store, pick up my organic kale, and come home, a perfect smile on his face, a perfect lie on his lips.

Brie Wade. The sister of his deceased best friend, Chandler Gross. The pieces clicked into place, a horrifying mosaic of betrayal. The whispers I had dismissed, the late-night calls I had ignored, the vague excuses he had offered. All of it was Brie. All of it was a lie.

I lay awake that night, staring at the ceiling, the betrayal a bitter taste in my mouth. Every loving word, every tender touch, every single piece of kale, felt like a poisoned offering. My mind replayed fragments of our life, searching for clues I had missed, red flags I had willfully ignored. Was it always a performance? Was I just a prop in his dutiful charade?

I tried to tell myself it meant nothing. It was just an obligation, a promise to a dead friend. He was just being kind. But as the hours stretched, the image of his eyes, so soft, so concerned for her, burned into my mind. It was more than kindness. It was an intimacy I thought was ours alone.

The first contraction hit like a lightning bolt. A sharp, searing pain that stole my breath. It was too early. Far too early. I screamed for Aaron, my voice cracking with panic. He rushed in, his face pale with fear, but it was fear for me, for our baby. I clung to that.

The hospital was a blur of fluorescent lights and hushed voices. The doctors spoke in urgent tones, their faces grave. This was it. Our baby was coming. And it was dangerous.

Then, his phone rang.

He glanced at it, his jaw tight. "It's Brie," he muttered. "I told her not to call."

"Aaron, please," I whispered, clutching his hand, a fresh wave of pain washing over me. "Don't answer it. Not now."

He hesitated, his eyes darting between me and the glowing screen. The phone rang again, insistent, shrill.

"I have to," he said, his voice strained. "She's... she's not stable."

He stepped out of the delivery room, just for a moment, he promised. I heard his voice, low and urgent, then a sharp, desperate cry I recognized as Brie' s. Something about a rooftop. Something about ending it all.

The words were like daggers, piercing through the pain of my contractions. He wasn't coming back. He was leaving me.

"Aaron, no!," I screamed, my voice raw with terror and betrayal. "Don't you dare! Our baby is coming! Don't you dare leave me!"

He paused, his back to me, his shoulders rigid. "I'm sorry, Elinor," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. "I have to. She needs me."

"She needs you?" My voice was a desperate, broken sob. "What about us? What about our child? If you walk out that door, Aaron Britt, don't you ever come back!"