My Husband Fed Me Birth Control for Five Years

Two months into my pregnancy, I took the meds my husband, Adrian Fitzwilliam, had his assistant, Layla Ward, drop off to help keep the pregnancy on track.

The pain hit instantly, sharp and twisting, like my insides were being wrung out.

I was rushed to the hospital. The agony blurred my vision, my consciousness slipping in and out.

Even so, through the haze, I still heard Adrian on the phone.

His voice was cold as he confronted his secretary.

“Who told you to send abortion pills?” he demanded. “Didn’t I tell you not to make decisions on your own?”

Layla sounded aggrieved, sniffling as she cried into the receiver. “But before this, you had Brooke taking birth control pills for five years. I thought you didn’t want this child, so I…”

Her voice broke, the sobs turning theatrical. “I’m sorry. I didn’t do it on purpose. Since I’ve caused the death of your baby, then I’ll pay for it with my own life!”

Adrian went quiet for a long moment.

When he finally spoke, he let out a weary sigh, like he was cornered.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said. “It’s just… what you did was too obvious. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to hide it from her.”

Then his tone hardened.

“I told you, our relationship absolutely cannot be discovered by Brooke. That’s my bottom line. I’ll help you cover this up once, but there won’t be a next time.”

When I opened my eyes in the hospital room, Adrian was already there, kneeling at my bedside.

He looked wrecked with guilt, slapping his own face again and again, like that could undo anything.

“It’s all my fault,” he choked out. “A nurse at the hospital gave the wrong medicine. I’ve already made her leave. Brooke… don’t be sad. We’ll have another child in the future…”

I just stared at him.

Those familiar brows and eyes were still the same, yet the fiery sincerity from our youth was gone, as if it had burned out a long time ago.

At that moment, I understood.

It was time to leave.

——

When I opened my eyes, I wished I’d never woken up at all. But the relentless pain in my lower abdomen kept reminding me this was real, every bit of it.

Adrian stayed kneeling by the bed. His cheeks were swollen from his own blows, his eyes full of remorse.

“Brooke… please don’t be like this,” he pleaded softly. “Say something to me. Don’t just stay silent. I’ll worry.”

When I didn’t respond, his eyes reddened. He shuffled forward on his knees until he was right in front of me, then clasped my IV hand tightly in both of his.

“That nurse who gave the wrong medicine has already been punished,” he said quickly, like stacking consequences could make it better. “The hospital said she’ll never be hired again. She’s been completely blacklisted from the industry.”

“You’re still young,” he continued, his voice unsteady. “We’ll have children later. Don’t punish yourself like this. If you’re hurting, take it out on me. This is all your husband’s fault…”

'We’ll have children later...'

What a bitter, ridiculous sentence.

For five years of marriage, I’d dreamed of having a child that belonged to the two of us.

When I went for check-ups, the doctor said my body was weak and that I needed careful conditioning. So I drank foul, nauseating herbal concoctions every day, forcing myself to swallow them until I could barely breathe through the gagging.

My stomach was covered with countless needle marks. Box after box of empty syringes got thrown away.

And Adrian saw it all. He looked pained for me, heartbroken for me.

He said he’d found foreign specialists and had spent a fortune to buy me a batch of special medicine, something with minimal side effects, something to help my body.

I took it for five whole years.

Only now did I learn the truth.

It had never been “medicine” at all.

It was birth control.

As he spoke, Adrian lifted my hand, like he was about to use it to slap his own face again, as if making it my hand would somehow make his apology feel real.

I yanked my hand back hard. Tears spilled down my cheeks despite myself.

“Adrian,” I said, my voice shaking, “I’m not stupid.”

Then I looked straight at him.

“Where’s Layla? Have her come see me. I want to talk to her myself.”

Adrian’s brows drew together tightly.

“Layla only graduated two years ago,” he said hurriedly. “She’s immature, she makes mistakes sometimes, but believe me, this has absolutely nothing to do with her.”

I gave a self-mocking laugh. I was just about to rip the mask off completely.

Then, the door suddenly pushed open.

Layla walked in.

The fake smile on her face hadn’t changed at all.

“Brooke, you’re finally awake,” she said brightly. “If you hadn’t woken up, Mr. Fitzwilliam was probably going to fire me from the company.”

She lifted the bag in her hands, putting on a show of thoughtfulness.

“I didn’t know what you liked to eat, so I just bought something casually. This shop is one Mr. Fitzwilliam goes to all the time. Try it.”

Without waiting for my reaction, she sat herself down by my bed. Her voice softened into something that sounded like sympathy, like regret.

“Even though the baby is gone, life still has to go on,” she sighed. “Brooke… people have to look forward.”

I couldn’t hold it in anymore.

I raised my hand and slapped her across the face.