Pregnant and Betrayed by My Husband and My Best Friend (Her Marriage in Crisis #112)

1. Chantal

— ? —

Chantal

The elephants are gray. Soft, hand-painted gray with little tusks curved upward like smiles, marching trunk-to-tail across the wall my best friend spent three weekends perfecting.

I stand in the doorway of the nursery, one hand pressed to the swell of my belly where my daughter is doing her nightly acrobatics, and I think about how Hazel mixed four different paint samples before she found the exact shade she wanted.

Serenity Stone, she called it. Said it would be calming for the baby.

She painted those elephants the week of my six-month checkup - the one Cedrick missed because of a “client emergency,” the one Hazel missed too, stuck in Chicago and so apologetic about it that she came home and painted for three days straight.

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

I pull it out expecting the ultrasound photos she promised to send - the ones from today’s appointment, the ones where you can finally see her little face - but instead, the screen shows a text thread that makes my stomach drop straight through the floor.

It’s a screenshot. Hazel’s screenshot, meant for someone else, sent to me by mistake.

CEDRICK: She’s suspicious. We need to stop.

HAZEL: You said that six months ago. Come over tonight. She thinks you’re working late.

I read it three times.

The first time, the words don’t make sense. They’re just shapes on a screen, black marks against white, arranged in an order my brain refuses to process.

The second time, something cold slides down my spine. A slow, creeping understanding that starts at the base of my skull and works its way down vertebra by vertebra.

The third time, I look up at the elephants.

Trunk-to-tail. Marching in a perfect line. Serenity Stone.

My best friend painted those elephants. My best friend, who held my hair back when morning sickness hit at her birthday dinner.

My best friend, who cried when I told her I was pregnant and said, “I’m going to be the best auntie in the world.

” My best friend, who has apparently been fucking my husband for six months.

Six months.

She was sleeping with him when she helped me pick out the crib. When she insisted on throwing me a gender reveal party. When she sat next to me at appointment after appointment.

My husband couldn’t be bothered to attend, and she held my hand and told me Cedrick was just stressed about work, that he’d come around, that men get weird about babies sometimes.

My daughter kicks against my palm. Hard. Like she knows.

I should cry. I should scream. I should call my mother, call Cedrick, throw things, burn things, destroy something the way this single text has just destroyed everything I thought I knew about my life.

Instead, I open my email app.

My fingers are steady as I forward the screenshot to myself - three different email addresses, just to be safe.

Then I open my photos and screenshot it there too.

Then I go into my text conversation with Hazel and delete the original message, the one she sent by mistake, the one that was never meant for me.

Then I go downstairs and finish making dinner.

Chicken piccata. Cedrick’s favorite. The lemon sauce requires constant attention, which is good, because it gives my hands something to do while my mind catalogues every lie I’ve been told in the past six months.

Working late. That was last Tuesday.

Drinks with clients. That was the weekend before.

Conference in Chicago. That was - god, that was three weeks ago. He came home smelling like a perfume I didn’t recognize, and I told myself it was the hotel soap.

The chicken sizzles in the pan. I flip it with mechanical precision.

I’m not angry yet. That’s the strangest part. The anger is there, somewhere, buried under six inches of shock, but what I feel right now is something colder. Something that tastes like metal on my tongue.

I feel calculating.

The garage door rumbles open at 6:47, thirteen minutes later than he said he’d be home. I hear his car pull in, his door slam, his keys jingle as he walks through the mudroom.

“Something smells amazing.” His voice carries through the house, warm and familiar. “Is that chicken piccata?”

“Your favorite,” I call back.

He appears in the kitchen doorway, loosening his tie, and I look at him - really look at him - for the first time in months. Cedrick Michael Clyborne, thirty-four years old, six feet of broad shoulders and carefully maintained charm. The man I married. The father of my child.

The lying, cheating piece of shit who’s been sleeping with my best friend.

“How was your day?” I ask.

“Long.” He crosses to the island, drops his briefcase on the counter, and leans in to kiss my cheek. His lips are dry and familiar. I wonder if they tasted like Hazel’s lipstick an hour ago. “The Whitlock account is a nightmare. I swear, if Mitchell doesn’t get his head out of his ass-”

“You poor thing.” I turn back to the stove. “Dinner’s almost ready. Why don’t you go change?”

He squeezes my shoulder on his way out. The gesture feels like a brand.

Twenty minutes later, we’re sitting at the dining room table like a normal couple having a normal dinner.

I’ve lit candles. I’ve poured him wine and myself sparkling water.

I’ve arranged the chicken on our wedding china, the plates we registered for four years ago when I thought forever meant something.

“This is incredible,” Cedrick says around a mouthful of food. “Seriously, babe, you’ve outdone yourself.”

“I wanted to do something special.” I take a small bite. The lemon sauce tastes like ash. “We’ve both been so stressed lately. I thought we could use a nice night.”

His eyes soften in a way that might have made me melt, once. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

I know that you’re a liar.

“I try.”

The doorbell rings.

Cedrick’s fork pauses halfway to his mouth. Something flickers across his face - surprise, then something darker - before he schools his expression into neutrality.

“Are you expecting someone?”

“Hazel said she might stop by with some things for the nursery.” I’m already rising from my chair, napkin folded neatly beside my plate. “She’s been so helpful with everything.”

His jaw tightens. Just barely. If I weren’t watching for it, I might have missed it.

“That’s… nice of her.”

I walk to the front door, my heart pounding so loud I’m amazed he can’t hear it from the dining room. My hand closes around the doorknob. I take one breath. Two.

Then I open the door to my best friend’s face.

Hazel Newman stands on my porch in a silk blouse and perfectly tailored pants, her dark hair swept up in a sleek ponytail, a gift bag dangling from her manicured fingers.

She looks beautiful. She looks nervous. Her eyes dart past me into the house, then back to my face, and I watch her trying to figure out if I know.

“Chantal! I hope I’m not interrupting.” Her smile is just slightly too bright. “I was in the neighborhood and I couldn’t resist bringing these by.”

“You’re never interrupting.” I pull her into a hug, and I feel the exact moment her shoulders relax. She didn’t send the text. I didn’t see it. Everything is fine. “Come in, come in. Cedrick and I were just having dinner.”

She stiffens at his name, but only for a second. “Oh, I don’t want to intrude-”

“Don’t be silly.” I take her arm and lead her inside. “You’re family.”

In the dining room, Cedrick is standing with his wine glass in hand, his expression carefully blank. Hazel doesn’t look at him. He doesn’t look at her. The air between them practically vibrates with all the things they’re not saying.

It’s almost impressive, really. The coordination. The discipline.

Six months of this. Six months of performing normalcy while they betrayed me in every way that matters.

“Look what Hazel brought!” I pull the tissue paper from the gift bag and lift out a pair of tiny shoes. White leather with little bows on the toes. The kind of thing a devoted best friend would pick out for her goddaughter-to-be. “Oh, Hazel. These are perfect.”

“I saw them in a window and I couldn’t resist.” Her voice is steady now, warm with the easy affection of a woman who thinks she’s gotten away with something. “I can’t wait to see her little feet in them.”

I set the shoes on the table and pull her into another hug. This time, I hold on longer than necessary.

“Thank you,” I murmur against her hair. “For everything. The nursery, the baby shower planning, all of it. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Her arms tighten around me. “You’ll never have to find out.”

Over her shoulder, I catch Cedrick’s eye. He’s watching us with something that might be guilt, if he were capable of feeling it.

I smile at him.

Then I turn back to Hazel, keeping my arm around her waist, and I say the words that will haunt her for the rest of her life:

“I can’t wait to meet my daughter. And I can’t wait for her to know her Auntie Hazel. You’re going to be such a big part of her life.”

Hazel’s eyes go bright with tears. Genuine ones, I think. That’s the thing about Hazel - she can compartmentalize. She can love me and betray me in the same breath and never see the contradiction.

“I can’t wait either,” she whispers. “I’m going to spoil her rotten.”

“I know you will.”

I walk her to the door twenty minutes later, after dessert, after small talk, after watching her and Cedrick navigate a conversation without once making eye contact. At the threshold, she hesitates.

“Text me later?” Her phone is in her hand, screen dark. She’s fishing. Trying to figure out if I saw what she sent. “I know I forwarded you some stuff earlier - my threads have been a mess all day. I hope I didn’t send anything weird.”

My heart is pounding, but my voice comes out perfectly calm.

“I don’t think so? My phone’s been blowing up with baby shower RSVPs. I probably missed half my messages.”

The relief that washes over her face is almost pathetic.

“Okay, good. Good.” She pulls me into one last hug, her arms squeezing tight around my expanded middle. Her breath is warm against my ear as she whispers: “I can’t wait to be Auntie Hazel.”

I hug her back, smiling, and I think:

I’m going to destroy you both.

Later, after Cedrick has fallen asleep beside me with his hand resting on my belly like he has any right to touch what he’s already broken, I lie awake and stare at the ceiling.

My phone glows on the nightstand. I pick it up and scroll through the screenshots one more time.

She’s suspicious. We need to stop.

You said that six months ago. Come over tonight. She thinks you’re working late.

Six months. She was suspicious six months ago, which means something happened to make her suspicious, which means there were signs I missed, conversations I didn’t question, nights he came home late smelling like someone else’s soap.

I put my hand on my stomach, over his, and I feel our daughter kick against both our palms.

She has no idea. She’s floating in the dark, warm and safe, dreaming whatever dreams babies dream about, while the world she’s about to be born into crumbles around her.

But here’s the thing about crumbling worlds:

You can rebuild them.

I close my eyes and start to plan.

Tomorrow, I will kiss my husband goodbye and tell him I love him. I will have lunch with my best friend and let her think she’s gotten away with something. I will smile and laugh and perform the role of happy wife and devoted friend until I have everything I need.

And then, when the time is right, I will burn it all down.

The best revenge isn’t cold, I realize. It isn’t hot, either.

The best revenge is patient. Calculated. Sweet.

And when it comes - when I finally pull the trigger on everything I’m about to build - they won’t see it coming until it’s already too late.

My daughter kicks again, and I smile in the darkness.

Don’t worry, baby girl. Mommy’s got this.