My Husband Let His Mistress Torture Me While Pregnant

I spent three weeks planning that dinner.

Not because it had to be perfect. Because I wanted it to be. There's a difference. I picked the flowers myself—white peonies, because Mateo once said they reminded him of me. I made the reservation at the florist, chose the candles, wrote the little cards for the table. Our Manhattan penthouse had never felt more like a home than it did that afternoon, with the skyline going gold outside the windows and something warm moving through my chest that I hadn't let myself name yet.

Three months. I was three months along, and every morning I woke up and put my hand flat on my stomach and thought: you're still here.

Mateo came home at seven with Skyler behind him.

I heard the elevator before I saw them. Then the doors opened and there she was—Skyler Diaz, the girl we'd been sponsoring through her graduate program. She was twenty-three, soft-voiced, with eyes that always looked slightly wet, like she was perpetually on the edge of gratitude. She was carrying a slim silver case, the kind that looks medical.

"Harlee." She said my name like an apology. "I hope it's okay that I came. Mateo thought—" She glanced at him.

"I told her about the dinner." Mateo's hand landed on her shoulder. Easy. Natural. "She found something. For the baby. Tell her, Sky."

Skyler set the case on the dining table I had spent an hour arranging. "It's a prenatal stress relief device," she said softly. "I researched it for weeks. The electrodes are very low-frequency. It's supposed to regulate cortisol. I know you've been anxious, and I just—" She pressed her lips together. "I wanted to do something."

I looked at the case. Then at Mateo.

He was smiling. Open, easy, the smile I had fallen in love with in a college hallway six years ago when he helped me carry books in the rain. I had catalogued that smile for years. I had trusted it completely.

"It's safe," he said. "She had a doctor look at it."

I hesitated.

I should have held onto that hesitation. I should have let it grow into something.

Instead, I said, "Okay."

Conor Stevens arrived twenty minutes later with two other men I recognized from Mateo's circle. Nobody explained why they were there. I told myself it was a surprise. I told myself Mateo had wanted to celebrate.

The straps were soft. That's the detail I keep coming back to. Skyler's hands were gentle, her voice low and reassuring as she guided my wrists into the cuffs. "Just breathe," she said. "It starts slow."

It did start slow.

The first pulse was nothing. A hum. A tingle. I exhaled and thought: see, you were worried for nothing.

Then Skyler reached for the dial.

"Calibration," she said pleasantly, to no one in particular.

The second pulse made me flinch. The third made me gasp. I looked at Mateo across the room. He was holding a glass of whiskey. Conor said something I couldn't hear, and the two of them laughed—that specific kind of laugh, loose and performative, the kind designed to signal to everyone watching that what was happening was fine, was funny, was nothing.

"Mateo." My voice came out wrong. Too thin. "Stop. Please stop."

He looked at me. He took a sip.

Skyler tilted her head with an expression of such practiced sympathy that it almost looked real. Her finger moved on the dial.

I don't remember the floor. I remember the ceiling. I remember a sound that I realized later was coming from me.

And then I remember nothing.

---

Sometime after midnight, I was alone.

I don't know where they went. I didn't look for them. I moved through the penthouse the way you move through water—slowly, with everything muffled.

I found the smart home panel in the hallway. My hands were shaking but my mind was very clear. Clearer than it had been in months. Maybe years. I pulled the surveillance footage from every room. I copied it onto an encrypted drive I kept in my coat pocket for work travel. I pressed it into the lining of my coat and I sat down on the floor of the hallway and I put my hand flat on my stomach.

For a long time I didn't move.

I didn't call an ambulance. I didn't call my parents in London. I didn't scream.

I just sat there in the dark and I made a decision.

---

The lawyer's office was white and cold and smelled like paper.

Mateo sat across the room with his arms crossed, watching me. I could feel him waiting for something. Tears, maybe. Pleading. Some version of me that would make him feel like he'd won a negotiation.

I signed every page without reading them twice. My handwriting was steady.

When I stood up, Mateo's jaw shifted. Just slightly. A microexpression I had learned to read years ago—the one that meant he was recalculating.

I walked into the hallway. I took out my phone.

First call: the graduate scholarship office. Skyler Diaz's funding—all of it, the fellowship, the research grant, every dollar with my family's name on it—revoked, effective immediately.

Second call: one ring, then a voice I had known since I was fifteen.

"Harlee." Theo Lawson. Quiet. Steady. Already listening.

"I need you," I said.

He didn't ask why. He didn't ask what happened. He just said, "I'm already on my way."

I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes. In my coat pocket, the encrypted drive pressed against my ribs like a second heartbeat. In my wallet, folded small, was a photograph from twelve weeks ago—a grainy black-and-white image of something that had been, briefly, the most important thing in my world.

I touched the outside of my wallet once.

Then I straightened up, put my phone away, and walked toward the elevator.

I had work to do.