Whitley
Pregnant. The word lands heavy… but it doesn’t shake me the way it should. Not after tonight. Not after him. I press my hand lightly against my stomach, eyes drifting up to Chauncey as he moves around the room like he still thinks he’s in control.
He’s not. And that’s what finally settles it for me. I’ve seen this before—a man choosing his wife while playing in my face, as if I’m supposed to accept whatever piece he decides to give me. My husband did it. Now Chauncey. Same cycle. Same disrespect.
Only difference this time?
I’ve got something to stand on.
Leverage.
I don’t cry. I don’t yell. I move. Quietly.
Calculated. My phone is already in my hand as I scroll through my camera roll—pictures from earlier: the suite, the bed, him in the room, timestamps.
Proof. Then I stop on the last one—the test. Positive.
My jaw tightens. If I walk away… it won’t be quietly.
I open Instagram and type her name without hesitation.
Rhy. Of course, she pops right up—pretty, put together, the same ghetto whore I just fought at that hospital, the same one he’s desperate to protect.
My lips press into a thin line. Yeah… she gon’ know exactly what this is.
I tap her name and hit message. No introductions needed—we already did that.
You remember me?
From the hospital.
I don’t wait for a response. I send the next one right behind it.
I’m pregnant by your husband.
Sent.
My thumb hovers for half a second before I attach all the photos—proof. No confusion. No denials. Sent.
I lean back, crossing my legs slowly, watching Chauncey pace like he ain’t got a storm headed straight for him. Because now? This ain’t just between him and me anymore. I just made it her problem, too. And this time… when Rhy sees my name? She gon’ remember exactly who the hell I am.