Revenge on Deceitful Spouse

The afternoon sun streamed through the windows of Little Dreams, casting golden light across the pristine white displays. I ran my fingers over the delicate woodwork of a crib, imagining my baby's tiny fingers curling around the rail. Six months pregnant, I'd spent weeks searching for the perfect nursery furniture, and this piece—with its hand-carved details and soft finish—was finally it.

"This would be perfect in the corner of the nursery," I murmured to myself, my free hand resting protectively over my swollen belly. "You'd have plenty of room to grow."

The sales associate smiled warmly. "It's one of our most popular designs, Mrs. Henderson. The craftsmanship is exceptional."

I nodded, already picturing Luke's face when he saw it. After years of trying—of disappointment and tears—this pregnancy had been a miracle. Luke had cried when we found out, holding me so tightly I could barely breathe.

"I'll take it," I decided, turning to the associate. "And the matching dresser and—"

Her expression suddenly shifted. The warmth drained from her eyes, replaced by something that looked almost like pity. My words died in my throat as I followed her gaze toward the store entrance.

A woman stood there, her posture rigid with fury. Even from across the room, I could see the perfectly tailored lines of her designer dress, the gleam of expensive jewelry at her throat. But it was her face that captured my attention—beautiful in a sharp, predatory way, twisted now with rage.

"So this is where the whore shops for her bastard's furniture," she announced, her voice cutting through the gentle background music of the store like a blade.

The other customers froze. A young mother clutching her toddler's hand stared open-mouthed. The sales associates exchanged panicked glances.

I turned slowly, one hand still on the crib. "Excuse me?"

The woman stalked toward me, her heels clicking against the polished floor. Up close, I could see the perfection of her makeup, the careful styling of her hair. But her eyes—they burned with a hatred so pure it stole my breath.

"Marley White," she introduced herself with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Luke's wife. His real wife."

My heart stuttered. "I'm sorry, there must be some mistake. I'm Adriana Henderson. Luke and I have been married for three years."

Marley laughed, the sound brittle and sharp. "Oh, honey. Is that what he told you?" She reached into her purse and pulled out an official-looking document, unfolding it with deliberate slowness.

"Here's our marriage certificate," she said, thrusting it toward me. "Signed, sealed, and filed with the state of California. Two years ago."

I stared at the paper. It looked legitimate—the right fonts, the official seals, Luke's signature at the bottom beside hers. My vision blurred around the edges.

"That's... that's impossible," I whispered.

"Impossible?" Marley's voice rose, drawing more attention from the horrified onlookers. "What's impossible is you thinking you could steal my husband. Did he tell you he loved you? That you were special?"

My throat constricted. "We're having a baby."

"A baby he doesn't want with you." Marley leaned closer, her perfume overwhelming me. "He told me all about your little arrangement. How you trapped him with this pregnancy after he'd already chosen me."

"He knows what I like for breakfast," she continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "He knows the scar on my shoulder from when I fell skiing in Aspen. He knows exactly how I look when I wake up in the morning."

Each detail was a knife twisting in my chest. These weren't things a stranger would know.

"You're lying," I said, but my voice lacked conviction.

Marley's smile widened. "Am I? Ask him about our weekend in Cabo. About the promise ring he gave me before you ever met him."

I shook my head, backing away. "This isn't real. None of this is real."

"It's more real than you ever were to him," Marley hissed.

Then everything happened too fast. Her hand dipped into her purse again, and this time when it emerged, it held something that caught the light—something sharp.

"You won't steal my husband with your bastard child!" she screamed.

There was a moment of terrible clarity—the flash of metal, the collective gasp of the crowd, the sales associate's scream cutting through it all.

Then pain exploded through my abdomen. I looked down in disbelief at the knife handle protruding from my stomach, at the crimson stain blooming across my white blouse.

"No," I gasped, my knees buckling. "No, please..."

As I collapsed among the scattered baby furniture, one thought crystallized with perfect, terrible clarity: my baby was slipping away from me, just like everything else Luke had promised.

Marley stood over me, her shadow blocking out the sun. "Now there's nothing left of him in you," she said, her voice eerily calm amid the chaos erupting around us. "Nothing at all."