My Husband Cheated While I Was Pregnant

I pushed open my husband's study door, carrying the baby we had fought so hard to make.

Our new nanny was sitting on his lap, and his hand was inside her unbuttoned blouse.

Hot soup spilled over the burn on the back of my hand, and I didn't even feel it.

When Preston saw me, the first thing he said was, "You won't get rid of the baby, so don't make a scene."

The bowl hit the rug. Cream soup soaked into the wool, right next to one of Mallory's shoes.

Her shoe. Already off.

Eight weeks. That's how pregnant I was. For most of those weeks, Preston had slept in here.

"The Halvorsen deal is killing me, Audrey. I don't want to wake you at two a.m."

I believed him. I even thanked him for hiring Mallory. She was twenty-eight, like me. I thought she might be a friend.

Tonight I'd cooked his favorite soup. The pot handle seared my skin when I lifted it, and I still carried it upstairs. I wanted us back.

Mallory scrambled off him and clutched her blouse shut. Her eyes went red on cue.

"Mrs. Callahan, I'm so sorry." Her voice shook like a leaf. "I just admire him so much. I lost control. It was only once, I swear."

"Only once?" I glanced at the second wine glass on his desk.

She flinched.

Preston crossed the room and wrapped his arms around me. He smelled like her perfume.

"Baby, listen to me." He pressed his forehead to mine. "You're pregnant. We haven't touched in weeks. I'm a man. It meant nothing."

I laughed.

I didn't mean to. It just came out, short and ugly, and both of them stared at me.

"A man," I repeated. "Preston, I took shots in my stomach every night for three months. I had needles in my ovaries. I lay on that table while they put our embryo inside me. I throw up every morning before you wake up. And you needed to feel like a *man*?"

"Audrey—"

"Get her out." My voice cracked down the middle. I pointed at Mallory. "Pack your things. Leave my house tonight."

Mallory looked at Preston. Not at me.

That told me everything.

He let me go and stepped back. Something in his face shut like a door.

"She's not going anywhere tonight. It's raining."

"Then I'll call her a cab."

"Stop." He straightened his cuffs. "Let's be smart about this. Dr. Shaw told you this might be your only shot. Your egg count, your age, the two failed transfers. You really want to start over? With who?"

My hand drifted to my stomach.

He saw it. His mouth curled.

"Right. You won't end it. And you won't leave either. You quit your job because I asked you to. You don't have a dime that isn't mine. Where would you go?"

"I'll figure it out."

"No, you won't." He leaned closer. "And if you post one word about this, or call your sister, I'll tell everyone the truth. That pregnancy hormones made you paranoid. That you've been crying for no reason, accusing the staff, not sleeping. I have a doctor who'll sign whatever I need. Who do you think they'll believe?"

Behind him, Mallory wiped her eyes. She wasn't crying anymore.

I walked out of the study without another word.

Ten minutes later I dragged my suitcase down the front steps. He didn't stop me. Through the window, I saw his silhouette, and hers, a little too close.

The Lennox Grand was the only hotel I could think of. I gave the clerk my card.

She swiped it. Frowned. Swiped again.

"I'm sorry, ma'am. It's been declined."

"Try this one."

Declined.

The third card. Declined.

Every card he'd given me. Frozen in less than an hour.

He had planned for this. He'd planned for me.

A cramp twisted low in my belly. Sharp. I gripped the marble edge of the counter and bent forward.

"Please," I whispered. "Could you just try once more?"

"Are you kidding me?" a man behind me snapped. "Some of us have early flights."

"Lady, step aside if you can't pay," a woman added.

My face burned. I fumbled for my phone, for anything.

A black card slid onto the counter beside my hand.

"Put her room on this."

The voice was low. Calm. Not loud, but the people behind me went quiet.

I turned.

He was tall, in a charcoal suit cut so perfectly it looked carved onto him. I knew that fabric. Preston had begged for an appointment with Marchetti House for two years. They dressed maybe forty men in the world. He never got in.

Then I saw the face, and my stomach dropped for a different reason.

Kellan Royce.

CEO of Royce Group. The man every financial channel chased and none of them caught. No private interviews. Ever. Preston used to read articles about him at breakfast with a kind of hungry envy.

"You don't have to—" I started.

"It's done." His gaze moved to my hand. The blister was already rising, angry and wet. Then to my eyes, which I knew were swollen. He didn't ask.

He looked at the clerk instead. "Upgrade her to a suite. Somewhere quiet. And send up a burn kit."

"Yes, Mr. Royce. Right away."

Heat crawled up my neck. Up close he smelled like cedar and rain. My heart did something stupid.

"Thank you," I said. "Really. I'll pay you back. I just need a few days to—"

I reached out without thinking. My fingers brushed his wrist, just above his watch.

He pulled his arm back so fast the cuff snapped.

The warmth in the air vanished. He stepped away, putting a full foot between us. His face went smooth and cold as glass.

"No need," he said. "Good night."

He walked toward the elevators. He didn't look back once.

I stood there with my hand still half-raised, feeling like a fool.

"Ma'am?" The clerk held out a key card. "Your suite is on the thirty-second floor."

The room was huge and silent. I sat on the edge of the bed and pressed the cold gel pack onto my burn. The cramp eased slowly.

Okay, baby. Okay. We're okay.

My phone buzzed.

Preston.

*Done throwing your tantrum? Come home. And don't forget whose baby you're carrying.*

I read it three times.

Then a second message came in. A photo. Mallory's shoe, the one from the rug, sitting neatly beside my side of our bed.