Burning Rage

For six months, I clung to the belief my wife, Sophia, was in Europe saving her family's struggling hospital-the one I' d poured my career into.

Then she came home, stepping out of the car beaming, but not alone; her personal assistant, Mark, was with her, pulling her luggage.

"I have something wonderful to tell you," she chirped, taking my hand, her eyes betraying a nervous flutter.

"I'm pregnant," she announced, placing a protective hand on her stomach.

My heart soared until her gaze shifted to Mark, and she added, "It's not yours."

The world spun. My wife, pregnant with another man's child, stood before me in my home.

"I'm three months along," she offered, clinically.

Before the shock could fully register, she brazenly declared, "I need you. The baby has a congenital heart defect. A procedure only you perfected."