My Husband Kissed Another Girl in the Crowd

Griffin swore he had to leave town for a sudden series of meetings—something about courting foreign investors in Tokyo. He pressed a gentle kiss to my forehead before he left, tracing the curve of my four-month bump like it was precious to him.

“Just three days,” he murmured with that easy smile of his. “You won’t even have time to miss me.”

I wasn’t planning on attending the Dusk Republic concert that night. But the baby always kicked when music played, like she was dancing inside me. So I decided to go. No friends. No announcement. Just me and the tiny rhythm in my belly.

I was actually having fun—laughing with strangers, humming along—until the stadium screens swept over the audience. The camera zoomed. Faces flashed. And then my entire world stalled.

Griffin Mercer.

Front and center.

Not alone.

He was holding someone—clinging, really. A woman with glossy, dark hair, wearing a red dress painted onto her skin. Celeste Ashcroft. His HR director. The same woman who once joked, “Chill, Abigail. Married men aren’t my thing.”

The screen froze on them mid-movement: her head thrown back in a laugh, his face tucked into the crook of her neck like it belonged there. Like it had belonged there for a long time.

My breath vanished. Just… disappeared.

Then Celeste noticed the camera. Her grin faltered. Griffin turned, followed her gaze, and the instant he recognized the lens, he jerked her down, dragging her out of the frame. Vanishing like fugitives.

My fingers went numb.

No. No, that couldn’t be him. Maybe someone who looked like him? A trick of the lights?

My denial shattered when I dialed his number.

Once—no answer.

Twice—straight to voicemail.

The third time, he finally picked up.

“Kind of busy right now,” he said. No music in the background, no crowds. “I’m in a discussion with clients. I’ll call you later, babe.”

The call disconnected.

Clients.

In Tokyo.

While I was staring directly at him on a screen the size of a building.

Tears blurred the neon lights around me, smearing the glowing sign that declared FOREVER LOVE in oversized pink letters. I walked out of that arena without thinking, stepping into rain so cold it soaked through my dress and into my bones. My little flats slapped against the pavement in echoes. I didn’t bother with an umbrella. Didn’t bother wiping my cheeks. Everything inside me felt split open anyway.

The same scene kept looping in my head—Griffin’s arms around her, holding her the way he used to hold me.

By the time I reached our mansion’s gate, I was soaked, shaking, and barely upright. I lifted my hand toward the intercom—

A grip locked around my waist.

I didn’t even have time to scream before a black SUV screeched to a stop beside me. The door flung open. Hands—gloved, brutal—yanked me inside. I thrashed, kicked, begged. The door slammed shut.

Darkness swallowed me whole.

---

When consciousness clawed its way back, my skull felt split in half. My mouth tasted like metal and chemicals. Instinctively, my hands went to my stomach.

Flat.

Flat.

No curve.

No warmth.

No life.

Something inside me cracked.

My wrists were tied to metal rails, the restraints biting into my skin. My thighs were smeared with dried blood—thick, crusted, monstrous. I could tell the violence had happened long before I woke.

The room was dim, its air damp and rotten. Concrete walls. No windows. No sign of mercy. Just shadows and the sour smell leaking from a corner I couldn’t bear to look at.

Until I did.

A black plastic bin.

Lid half open.

And inside… a pale shape.

A tiny limb.

A curled fist the size of a plum.

My daughter.

My scream tore itself out of my body. I thrashed, pulling at the restraints until my wrists burned, sobbing so hard it felt like my ribs were fracturing.

The door creaked open.

A man in a stained gown stepped inside. His gloves were still on, stiff with blood.

“We had to remove it,” he said in a voice far too calm. “Letting a female Mercer grow was a liability.”

The world tilted. I couldn’t get a single word past the knot of horror in my throat.

Another door opened.

Griffin.

“Jesus—Abigail!” he gasped, eyes widening as if he were the victim. “I’ve been calling you for hours. Your phone was dead. I just flew in from Singapore.”

He shot the doctor without hesitation. A single, practiced movement. The body collapsed beside the bed. Then Griffin rushed to me, gathering my face in his palms, kissing my forehead even though my skin was sticky with blood.

“You’re okay now,” he whispered. “You’re safe. I’ve got you. We’ll get through this. Just breathe.”

I looked past his shoulder.

At the bin.

At the tiny hand that would never curl around my finger.

And everything aligned with terrifying clarity.

Griffin wasn’t my savior.

He was the one who signed the order.

---

I don’t know how much time slipped by after that. Blurred days. Heavy sedation. A fog of pain and numb sorrow. Eventually, while lying half-awake, I heard voices outside the door.

Griffin.

Damian—his right-hand man.

They spoke like I wasn’t there. Like I wasn’t a person.

“You’re sick, Griffin,” Damian hissed. “You were at a concert with Celeste while your pregnant wife was being butchered. And you paid that psycho to get rid of her daughter—your daughter.”

My blood iced.

Griffin didn’t even bother denying it. “It was necessary. Celeste is carrying my son now. That girl Abigail was carrying? Useless. Couldn’t be an heir.”

My stomach lurched. My vision swam.

“A boy,” he continued coolly. “That’s what the Mercer line needs. My grandfather was explicit—no male heir, no future. He built everything from scratch; he wasn’t about to let some weak firstborn daughter inherit anything.”

Damian swore under his breath. “You didn’t need to sterilize her. You didn’t need to destroy her life.”

Griffin shrugged—actually shrugged. “I couldn’t risk complications. Celeste and I… we’ve been real for a long time. Before she ran from it. Abigail was just someone I pitied—a convenient wife to appease my grandfather after she saved his life.”

Convenient.

That’s what I was to him.

A placeholder with a ring.

Damian lowered his voice. “What if Abigail saw the concert video? You and Celeste looked like a damn couple.”

Griffin laughed. “She’s obsessed with me. She’ll swallow whatever excuse I give her. I’ll tell her it was edited. She’s always been desperate for someone to keep her.”

The venom in his tone drained what little warmth was left in my body.

He made his choice long before I ever suspected.

He chose Celeste.

Chose the son she carried.

Chose power over blood.

And he erased our daughter because she didn’t fit the blueprint he had for his empire.

---

When their footsteps faded, something inside me snapped awake.

I sat up, ripped the IV from my arm, and braced myself as dizziness crashed over me. Blood soaked the sheets, but I didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

I clutched my stomach where my daughter once lived and let the last tears fall—quiet, bitter, exhausted.

Then I reached under the mattress, fingers trembling, and pulled out the burner phone I’d hidden years ago.

A number I had sworn I would never dial again stared back at me.

I pressed call.