Chapter Nine
Stepping out of the shower, I dry off before reaching for my moisturizer.
The bottle is nearly empty.
Immediately annoyed, I smack it against my palm a few times until enough comes out to cover my face.
I swear it's a universal law that expensive skincare runs out faster than the cheap stuff.
Once that's done, I pull on a simple outfit and reach for my makeup bag.
The second I open my mascara, my teeth grit.
The wand is crooked.
“Bitch,” I mouth, shoving it back into the bag.
Thankfully my lip jelly is untouched.
Ever since Laila realized I was serious about keeping an eye on her, she's become increasingly petty.
Even more so after she realized Brad stopped answering her calls.
I should probably tell her I confiscated his phone, and informed him he could get his own damn account from now on.
Honestly, the whole thing felt weirdly parental.
Like I'd caught a teenager sneaking around with a girlfriend and grounded him.
Humiliating for everyone involved.
Mostly me.
I haven't blocked her number from his phone. I don't think I should.
If she decides to make a fuss after the baby is born, all those calls and texts will paint a pretty clear picture of who exactly kept pursuing whom.
At least that's the plan.
Though I think she saw his phone in my bag yesterday. Cause she's been extra mopey since then.
Extra dramatic.
Eating my food.
Using my makeup. Ruining my makeup.
I don't mind the food. And I can replace mascara.
As long as it stays petty, I'm willing to let it go.
The doctor said she could go into labor any day now. A few more days. That's all I need.
My phone buzzes on the counter.
Brad.
I stare at his name for a moment. Then sigh. I can't avoid him forever.
Swiping to answer, I put the phone to my ear while organizing my things.
“Hello.”
“Hey.” He sounds genuinely surprised I answered. “Hi,” he continues awkwardly. “I've been calling and... how's Lai-” He catches himself. “How's everything?”
“Fine,” I answer absently. “The doctor said she could go into labor any day now, so maybe call the lawyer and have him prepare the papers.”
Silence.
The contract already states the baby is legally ours upon birth, but I still want our lawyer to prepare additional paperwork. I want something in writing stating she agrees to no contact afterward.
Maybe that's harsh. I don't care.
“I've been thinking,” Brad starts.
Immediately every alarm bell in my body starts ringing.
“Do we really have to do this?” he asks carefully. “I mean... threatening to sue her if she contacts us?”
I open my mouth. Ready to yell. Ready to remind him that his mistress isn't the victim here.
Then a better idea occurs to me.
My eyes narrow.
I let out a quiet sniffle. Then another. When I speak, my voice is small and shaky. “I'm just scared, okay?”
“Wyn.” The pain in his voice would almost make me feel guilty if he hadn't earned it.
“How do I know you won't want her again?” I whisper.
“Wyn, I don't-”
“She's taunting me, you know.” I let my voice crack. “She keeps wearing these little outfits and telling me you bought them for her.”
Not entirely a lie.
A few days ago she'd worn a maternity dress and casually mentioned Brad had bought it for her.
Only the dress was actually from me.
I'd bought it months ago from when I was still stupid enough to think we were all on the same team.
“I never-” Brad stops abruptly. “I never bought her clothes.”
“How do I know that?” I ask, something real slipping through my carefully constructed act. “You keep saying trust me, but how can I?”
The line goes quiet.
For once, Brad doesn't have an answer.
I stare at myself in the mirror. How much of this is acting at this point? How much is manipulation?
And how much is genuinely me?
Because the tears come easy now. The hurt comes easier.
Pretending to be devastated isn't exactly difficult when I am devastated.
“I have to go,” I say quietly.
“Wyn, please.” His voice cracks. “Talk to me.”
I don't. I hang up.
Slowly, I lower the phone to the counter and take a deep breath. Then another. And another.
I study my reflection.
To me, I look exactly the same as I did the day I married Brad.
Twelve years and somehow, I still look like the woman standing in front of the mirror that morning.
Terrified.
Back then I'd stood in front of a different mirror wearing a wedding dress and taking deep breaths because I was convinced I was going to throw up.
Not because I didn't love Brad. Because I loved him so much.
I remember staring at my reflection and being terrified that I'd walk down that aisle and find nobody waiting for me.
An empty altar.
It hadn't been the first time I'd worn a wedding dress.
Nobody knew that though. They still don't because I never told them.
The memory flickers through my mind before I shove it away.
Not today.
Today already sucks enough.
When I married Brad, I'd been terrified of finding the aisle empty.
Now I can't help wondering if maybe it was a premonition.
Because that's the thing about cheating isn’t it.
Brad and I have had some beautiful years together. Years of anniversaries. Vacations. Inside jokes. Lazy Sundays.
And somehow the last few months have cast a shadow over all of it.
Not erased it. Just... Changed it.
Like finding mold behind a beautiful painting. The painting is still there. But now you'll never look at it the same way again.
Shaking my head, I wipe under my eyes and touch up my makeup before leaving the bathroom and my thoughts behind. At least that was the plan.
The apartment is quiet.
Too quiet.
Immediately, something feels wrong.
“Laila?” I call out as I step into the living room.
No answer.
My eyes sweep across the apartment, landing on the couch first. Empty. The blanket she'd been wrapped in earlier is tossed carelessly over the armrest, but she's nowhere to be seen. A cold feeling settles in my stomach as my gaze shifts toward the bed.
Empty.
I close my eyes. Rage blooms instantly behind them.
Of course.
Of course she would do this.
The doctor literally said she could go into labor any day now and suddenly she decides to disappear. For a second I wonder if she's running. Then common sense catches up with me.
Laila isn't trying to make it to Mexico. She's trying to make it to Brad.
My eyes snap open.
“Stupid girl.”
Grabbing my purse, I head for the door while pulling out my phone. The tracking app opens instantly, and for the first time since buying the stupid thing, I'm grateful for my paranoia. The little dot is moving steadily across the city.
Toward my house.
I stare at the screen for a moment before letting out a short, disbelieving laugh.
Apparently hearing that Brad chose me wasn't enough either. No, she needs to hear it from him directly. She needs one last shot at changing his mind.
Fine.
She can have it.
Getting into my car, I toss my purse into the passenger seat and start the engine. The dot continues moving across the map.
So do I.
Obviously, she gets there before I do.
By the time I pull onto my street, Laila's car is already parked in the driveway. Crooked. Half on the concrete, half on the grass like she'd barely remembered to stop before jumping out. What surprises me isn't the car though. It's her.
She's standing at my front door pounding on it.
My phone buzzes inside my purse.
Brad.
My eyebrows shoot up. That's unexpected.
I'd honestly thought he'd leap at the chance to talk to her. Thought he'd use this as an excuse to explain things or get closure or whatever people call it when they can't let go of the person they cheated with.
For a second, I actually feel bad for her.
She's standing there looking completely lost. One hand braced against the door, the other supporting her stomach. From a distance she doesn't look like a homewrecker. She looks like a scared pregnant woman who doesn't know where she's supposed to go.
Answering the call, I put it to my ear.
“She's here,” Brad says immediately, sounding out of breath.
“I am too.”
A pause follows. “What do we do?”
I bite my lip, then lean my head back against the seat. For all my planning, for all my confidence, I don't actually know. I don't know how to handle a pregnant mistress showing up on my doorstep looking desperate.
“Let her in,” I tell him finally.
“Wyn?”
“She's gonna make herself sick.”
As if the universe wants to prove me right, Laila suddenly doubles over.
My entire body goes rigid. Even from here I can see the pain on her face.
“Shit.”
I throw open my car door and run.
“Brad,” I yell into the phone as I sprint across the lawn.
Laila looks up when she hears me. Her face is wet with tears.
“It hurts,” she whispers.
Every ounce of anger disappears from my mind, replaced by gut-wrenching, bone-piercing fear.
Because right now she isn't my husband's mistress. She's carrying my daughter.
Both our heads snap up when the front door flies open. Brad stands there frozen in the doorway.
For a second nobody moves then Laila lets out a small cry and folds forward again.
“Help me get her in the car,” I snap.
Brad finally moves. The second he reaches for her, though, she jerks away.
“Don't touch me!”
The words dissolve into a sob.
Brad stops immediately. The look on his face almost makes me feel sorry for him.
“Fine,” I mutter.
Sliding an arm around her waist, I take most of her weight. Laila practically collapses against me as another wave of pain hits.
“Easy,” I murmur. “Come on. I've got you.”
Somehow, I manage to get her into the back seat of my car.
She's crying by the time I help her lie down across it, gripping my wrist hard enough to leave marks.
Brad is already moving toward the driver's side. “I'll drive.”
“No!” The scream tears out of her immediately. Fresh tears spill down her face. “No.”
“We can't stress her out,” I remind him quietly.
His jaw tightens. For a second I think he's going to argue. Then he nods and steps back.
I climb into the driver's seat and start the engine. Looking in the rearview mirror, I see Laila curled up in the back seat crying quietly to herself while Brad stands frozen in the driveway.
For a second our eyes meet through the windshield.
Then I look away.
“It's gonna be okay,” I say.
I'm not sure whether I'm reassuring Laila or myself.
Maybe both.
Laila doesn't answer. She just grips the handle above the door and squeezes her eyes shut.
The drive to the hospital feels both impossibly long and frighteningly short. Every red light feels painful. Every stop sign makes me squirm. By the third one, I'm gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles ache.
“Breathe,” I tell her whenever she starts crying harder. “Come on. Just breathe.”
She nods, then immediately starts sobbing again.
At one particularly long red light, I glance at her in the mirror and feel like the biggest idiot alive.
I should've called an ambulance.
Seriously.
What kind of a person sees a woman doubled over in pain and decides to drive her across Los Angeles herself?
The answer, apparently, is me.
Still, we make it.
Barely.
The second I pull up to the emergency entrance, nurses are already moving toward the car with a wheelchair.
Everything after that becomes chaos.
Questions.
Forms.
Doctors.
Nurses.
One contraction after another.
The doctor had warned us repeatedly that first babies usually take time.
Hours, sometimes. An entire day if we're unlucky.
Apparently, my daughter didn't get that memo.
Because Laila barely makes it through the doors of maternity before the whole wing erupts into motion.
One minute I'm signing paperwork. The next, a nurse is shouting for a doctor.
And then…
My daughter is born.