Married to My Baby's Killer

Three hours before our wedding, my fiancé dropped a bombshell—he wasn't coming. Instead, he turned around and married Estelle Banks.

I stood there, numb, as whispers and pitying glances swarmed around me. Then, like something out of a twisted fairy tale, Vincent Long—my ex-fiancé's younger cousin—burst into the hotel with a procession fit for royalty. A thousand and one roses in hand, he knelt before me, confessing he'd loved me in secret for years.

Desperate to escape the humiliation, I said yes.

Three years later, after seven heart-wrenching miscarriages, I was finally pregnant again. Vincent swept me into his arms, spinning me in a slow, tender dance. His voice was thick with emotion as he promised to cherish me and our baby for the rest of our lives.

Then, at three months along, I overheard the truth.

"Just like before," our private doctor murmured, "the miscarriage-inducing drugs are in her milk."

Vincent's response was ice-cold. "Kenneth can't have kids. I won't let Estelle suffer if I have an heir."

Every word was a knife to the chest. All those whispered promises, the gentle touches, the nights he held me after each loss—none of it was real. I was just a pawn in his sick game.

"You're throwing away your future," the doctor pressed. "Your wife has already lost seven babies. Another could leave her infertile."

Vincent didn't even hesitate. "I'll take care of her."

My hands shook as I clung to the doorframe, my vision blurring with rage. All this time, I'd blamed myself—my body, my weakness. But it was him. Him.

I barely made it back to our bedroom before collapsing, my mind reeling.

Vincent found me there, slumped on the floor. "Jude?" He rushed to my side, his face the picture of concern. "What's wrong?"

"Morning sickness," I lied, forcing a smile.

He brushed a hand over my back, his touch feather-light. "You're working too hard. Next time, call me. I hate seeing you like this."