After Losing Baby, She Strikes Back

The email from Bellevue Birth Center glowed on my phone screen, the words blurring as I read them again. I blinked, hoping the message would somehow change, but the clinical language remained unchanged:

'Dear Mrs. Cross, We regret to inform you that your husband has declined payment for your upcoming delivery services, citing budgetary constraints. Please contact our billing department to make alternative arrangements.'

My hand instinctively moved to my swollen belly, feeling the gentle kick of my baby—our baby—as if she too sensed something was wrong. Eight months pregnant, and suddenly I was scrambling to secure a safe place to give birth.

I took a deep breath, trying to calm the tightness forming in my chest. The familiar warning signs of an asthma attack hovered at the edges of my consciousness, but I pushed them away. Not now.

I dialed Nathan's number, counting the rings. One. Two. Three.

'Isabella.' His voice was clipped, distracted. I could hear the ambient buzz of the trading floor behind him.

'Nathan, I just got an email from the birth center.' I kept my voice soft, measured. 'They said you've refused to pay for the delivery.'

A beat of silence. 'We need to cut costs.'

'Cut costs?' The words felt foreign in my mouth. The Montgomery-Cross household had never worried about money. 'Nathan, we talked about this. The center has the best neonatal specialists in Manhattan.'

'You need to understand the bigger financial picture, Isabella.' His tone shifted to the one he used when explaining simple concepts to difficult clients. 'There are priorities that require immediate attention.'

'What priorities could possibly—'

'I don't have time for this now. Use Mount Sinai like everyone else.' The line went dead.

I lowered the phone, staring at the darkened screen. The baby kicked again, harder this time, as if protesting her father's dismissal.

That night, after picking at my dinner alone, I opened my laptop. Something wasn't adding up. Nathan had never been particularly frugal—his collection of bespoke suits and vintage watches attested to that—but he'd always been meticulous about our finances.

I logged into our joint account, scrolling through recent transactions. Nothing unusual at first: household expenses, Nathan's club membership, a charitable donation to maintain our social standing. Then I saw it.

Item #274B: $5,000,000.

Five million dollars. The amount hit me like a physical blow. What could possibly cost that much? A property? An investment? But why the cryptic label?

I checked the date—three days ago. The same day Nathan had suddenly announced he couldn't accompany me to my prenatal appointment.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard. I should close the laptop, wait for Nathan to come home, ask him directly. That's what the old Isabella would do—the perfect, understanding wife who never questioned her husband's decisions.

Instead, I dug deeper.

The transaction had been made to Blackwood Auction House, an exclusive establishment that catered to the ultra-wealthy with unusual tastes. Their website was minimal, offering little information beyond an elegant logo and a contact form.

When Nathan came home after midnight, I was waiting in the living room, my laptop open.

'What's Item #274B?' I asked without preamble.

He froze momentarily, then continued removing his coat. 'You've been going through our accounts?'

'Our joint account, yes.' I kept my voice steady. 'Five million dollars, Nathan. That's more than just cutting costs.'

He poured himself a whiskey, the amber liquid catching the light. 'It's a business investment.'

'Through an auction house?'

His eyes narrowed slightly. 'It's complicated, Isabella. Not something you need to concern yourself with.'

'I think I do need to concern myself when you're refusing to pay for our child's birth while spending millions on mystery auctions.'

He set down his glass with deliberate care. 'This conversation is over.' He walked past me toward our bedroom, his shoulder brushing mine without warmth.

I didn't sleep that night.

The next morning, I woke early, determined to get answers. Nathan had already left for his morning workout—or so I'd thought. As I approached our bedroom to retrieve my prenatal vitamins, I heard voices.

Nathan's deep tone, and then... a woman's laugh. Light, musical, unfamiliar.

Something cold settled in my stomach as I pushed open the door.

Time seemed to slow. Nathan—my husband—lay in our bed, his arm wrapped around a woman I'd never seen before. Her dark hair spilled across my pillow, her slender body draped in what appeared to be one of Nathan's shirts. They both turned at the sound of the door.

'Isabella.' Nathan's voice was calm, as if I'd interrupted a business meeting rather than found him in bed with another woman. 'You should have knocked.'

The woman—stunning, with sharp cheekbones and calculating eyes—merely watched me, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

'What is this?' My voice sounded distant, as if it belonged to someone else.

Nathan sat up, not bothering to cover himself. 'This is Seraphina Vale. Item #274B.'

My hand flew to my throat. 'You... bought a woman?'

'I acquired her services,' he corrected. 'Seraphina has unique abilities. She can predict market trends with extraordinary accuracy.'

'And this'—I gestured at the intimate scene before me—'is how she predicts the market?'

'Our connection must be... intimate,' Nathan said, his tone clinical. 'It's business-critical, Isabella. Her abilities only manifest through deep personal bonds.'

Seraphina's smile widened as she watched my world collapse around me.

'You can't be serious,' I whispered, one hand instinctively cradling my belly. 'You expect me to accept this?'

'I expect you to understand the bigger picture,' Nathan replied, his eyes cold. 'This is about our future—about legacy.'

As he spoke, Seraphina's hand slid possessively across his chest, her eyes never leaving mine.