My Unfaithful Husband's Secret Baby (Her Marriage in Crisis #65)

1. Jo

— ? —

Jo

Three pregnancy tests.

Three little plastic sticks lined up on the bathroom tile in a tidy, condemning row, and every single one of them is telling me my life is over.

The cold from the floor seeps through my jeans, but moving feels impossible right now.

My back is pressed against the wall, knees pulled up to my chest, and those two pink lines might as well be a death sentence.

If staring hard enough could change them, they’d be negative by now.

They won’t change. Deep down, that truth is already settling into my bones.

But the staring continues anyway because the alternative is acknowledging that this is real, that this is happening, that a twenty-year-old girl is pregnant in a foreign country with two years of school left and...

“Okay okay okay.” Grace is pacing behind me, hands shoved in her hair, pulling at the roots. “Okay. Okay okay okay.”

“Stop saying okay.”

“I’m processing!”

“You’re spiraling.”

“You’re spiraling! I’m spiraling with you!

That’s what best friends do, Jo, we spiral together!

” She stops pacing and crouches down in front of me, grabbing my hands.

Her fingers are freezing. Or maybe mine are.

Hard to tell anymore. “Okay. Okay. Three tests. Three positive tests. That’s...

that’s conclusive. That’s definitely conclusive. ”

“Grace.”

“I know. I know, I’m sorry, I just...” She squeezes my hands so hard it almost hurts. “You have to tell him.”

The words land like stones in my stomach.

God, of course. Of course Matthias needs to know.

My husband. Husband, that’s a thing now, a husband, because six months ago we stood in front of a courthouse judge and said I do like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Young and stupid and so fucking in love that forever felt like the only option.

He’s older. Twenty-four to my twenty. Already finishing his degree while mine stretches out for two more years, already talking about job prospects back in the States while studio projects and late nights threaten to drown me.

But he always said we’d figure it out. We’ll make it work, baby, I promise, we’ll make it work.

He promised.

Believing him is the only option.

It has to be.

“What if he’s not happy?” The words come out small and scared, the voice of the girl from before him. “What if this ruins everything?”

“Then he’s an idiot and I’ll kill him myself.” Grace’s jaw is set, that protective mama-bear thing she does when she thinks someone might hurt me. “But he loves you, Jo. He married you. This is just... earlier than planned. That’s all. It’s not wrong. It’s just early.”

Just early.

Maybe she’s right.

Maybe he’ll smile that smile, the one that made me fall in love with him in the first place, and pull me into his arms and tell me everything’s going to be okay.

Maybe his hand will rest on my stomach and the words we’re having a baby will sound like the best news he’s ever received.

Maybe this will bring us closer. Maybe this is the start of something beautiful instead of the end of everything.

Maybe.

My legs feel like jelly when pushing off the floor, but they work anyway. “I’m going to tell him.”

“Now?”

“If I don’t do it now, I’ll chicken out.”

Grace nods, pulls me into a hug so tight breathing becomes difficult. “Call me after. I don’t care what time it is. Call me.”

“I will.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

The pregnancy tests go into my pocket, all three of them, because apparently evidence is necessary, apparently trusting myself to say the words without proof isn’t possible, and then the dorm room is behind me before second thoughts can take hold.

The walk to his apartment takes twelve minutes.

A hundred times, maybe two hundred, these same steps.

Every crack in the sidewalk is familiar, every tree, every building.

But today feels different. Today every step feels like walking toward a cliff edge, and whether there’s solid ground on the other side or just air remains a mystery.

My stomach is in knots. Not morning sickness, that hasn’t started yet, though it’s surely coming, just pure, unadulterated terror.

The whole walk is spent rehearsing. Hey, babe, so funny thing happened today.

Remember how I’ve been feeling sick? Turns out it’s not the dining hall food!

No. God, no. That’s horrible. Matthias, we need to talk.

Too ominous. I have news. Too vague. I’m pregnant and I’m scared and I need you to tell me everything’s going to be okay.

Yeah.

Yeah, that one.

The key to his apartment sits heavy in my palm.

He gave it to me two months ago, said it only made sense since we’re moving in together when the semester ends.

The memory of how happy that moment felt is still vivid, the cool metal pressed into my hand like proof that this was real, that we were real, that he was committed.

A key. Such a small thing. Such a huge thing.

A full minute passes standing outside his door, hand raised, trying to decide whether to knock or just go in. He’s probably studying. Finals are coming up. Disturbing him seems wrong, but standing here forever isn’t an option either, so the key slides into the lock and turns as quietly as possible.

The apartment is dim. Afternoon light filters through closed curtains, casting everything in shades of gold and shadow. My shoes come off in the entryway because he hates when people track dirt on his floors, and his name is about to leave my lips when something stops me.

A moan.

Low. Feminine. Coming from the living room.

Every drop of blood in my body turns to ice.

A slap. Skin on skin. A groan that curls through the air like smoke, and then...

“Yes, just like that. Fuck, bounce on my cock, baby.”

That’s his voice.

That’s my husband’s voice.

My hand goes to my stomach instinctively, protectively, like shielding the tiny thing inside from what’s about to happen is possible.

But moving is impossible. Breathing is impossible.

The entryway of my husband’s apartment has become a prison, and the sounds of him fucking someone else are the bars.

“Yes, yes, yes.” The woman’s voice is high and breathy, pitched in a way that makes my skin crawl. “Yes, Matty, you fuck me so good.”

Matty.

Nobody calls him Matty. Nobody except...

“Come on, Britt. Come all over me, baby. Come.”

Brittany.

Brittany Calloway, the girl from his study group, the one he said was just a friend, the one who always looked at me like something scraped off her shoe.

The question came up once. Whether there was anything between them.

He laughed and kissed me and said baby, you’re the only one I want, you’re my wife, remember?

The memory burns.

The sounds from the living room shift, moans pitching higher, his grunts growing ragged, and then they’re both crying out together and my husband is coming inside another woman and the world tilts sideways.

Nausea rolls through me in waves. The walls are spinning. My heart is shattering into pieces so small they’ll never fit back together, and I’m walking toward the living room on legs that belong to someone else, the whole thing happening to a different girl in a different life.

The pregnancy tests are burning a hole in my pocket. Three positive tests. Three little sticks that were supposed to change everything.

They’re going to change everything alright. Just not the way I thought.

The corner turns.

And there they are.

Brittany is on top of him. Riding him. Her head thrown back, hands on his chest, hips still rolling in lazy circles as they come down from it.

The couch, our couch, the one we picked out together, the one where we watched movies and talked about the future and planned the life we were supposed to have, is where they’re tangled up together, sweaty, breathless, satisfied.

Bile rises in my throat.

Brittany collapses against his chest with a giggle, and my husband, my husband, wraps his arms around her and pulls her in. She belongs there, that hold says. She’s his wife. I don’t exist.

“I thought we’d never do this again once you got married,” she says, tracing a finger down his chest. “But how many times has it been?”

“Too many.” He laughs. He actually laughs, this warm, easy sound that used to be the best part of my day, and hatred floods through me so fast it’s dizzying. “Nothing could keep me from your pussy, Britt. Not even marriage.”

He kisses her.

And a sound escapes my throat.

Not on purpose. It just happens, half gag, half sob, this wretched broken noise that claws its way out before anything can stop it. My hand claps over my mouth but the damage is done.

They turn.

Brittany sees me first, and she smiles. Actually smiles, this smug, satisfied curl of her lips, the look of a woman handed the trophy in a competition I never knew we were having.

Matthias goes pale.

“Jo...”

“Don’t.” My voice doesn’t sound like mine. It’s raw. Shattered. “Don’t you dare say my name.”

He’s scrambling now, shoving Brittany off him, grabbing for his clothes, his boxers, anything. “Wait, it’s not, it’s not what you think...”

Something inside me snaps.

“I JUST WATCHED HER RIDE YOUR COCK!” The scream tears out of my throat, burning, my whole body shaking with rage and grief and this horrible, crushing betrayal. “Are you seriously trying to gaslight me right now?! I SAW YOU, MATTHIAS! I SAW EVERYTHING!”

“Baby, calm down...”

“DON’T CALL ME THAT!”

“Jo, we can fix this.” He’s got his boxers on now, moving toward me with his hands raised like I’m a wild animal he’s trying to soothe. “Once we move in together, we can work through this. It was a mistake, Jo, it didn’t mean anything...”

“Didn’t mean anything?” A laugh tears loose, unhinged and jagged, the sound of someone losing their mind. “How many times, Matthias? How many times have you fucked her since we got married?”

He doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t have to. The truth is written all over his face. This wasn’t a one-time thing. This wasn’t a moment of weakness. This was ongoing. This was him choosing her, over and over and over again, while his wife was stupid enough to believe in forever.

“We’re done.” The words come out cold now, steady in a way that doesn’t feel real. “Do you hear me? We are done, Matthias. God help you if I ever see your face again.”

The door is the only destination that matters.

He doesn’t stop me.

He doesn’t chase me.

He lets me go.

The elevator doors close and my back hits the wall, sliding down until the floor meets my body. My hand presses against my stomach, those three pregnancy tests still in my pocket like evidence of a crime no one will ever prosecute.

He let me go.

He didn’t even try.

And now his child is growing inside me, and he’ll never know. This baby, my baby, will never know its father, because he doesn’t deserve to know, because he lost that right the moment he chose her.

Twenty years old. Pregnant. Alone in a foreign country, my degree still half-finished, no husband anymore, not really, not in any way that counts.

The tears come silently, streaming down my cheeks in the dim light of the elevator, and the only thought that makes it through the grief is this:

I will never let him hurt me again.