My Husband's Mistress Needed My Uterus

The lilies still hung heavy in the air when I noticed his arm draped around her shoulders like it belonged there. Like we weren't standing over our daughter's fresh grave. Our child. And him? Not a trace of grief on his face.

Then those cold eyes flicked to me, his voice slick with rehearsal. "Sabrina's got such a good heart. After everything she's endured, she still came to pay her respects. If Lyra's watching from heaven, I know she'll protect her baby brother."

He said it like we were at some stranger's funeral, like Sabrina was the grieving mother. Not me. Not the woman standing there with her chest carved hollow.

I didn't speak. Just twisted off my wedding ring after six years, turned on my heel, and walked out without a backward glance.

Later, the aunts came whispering apologies, making excuses. Brandon? That bastard just smirked. "Save your breath," he told them, that arrogant laugh curling his lips. "Let her have her tantrum. She'll come crawling back soon enough."

The whole Doyle clan erupted like he'd delivered the punchline of the century. They weren't even subtle about their little betting pool - wagers on how long until I'd break, until I'd beg Brandon for another baby.

Little did they know his private jet was already airborne. Three more hours and I'd vanish from Port City forever.

Back at the villa, I was stuffing clothes into a suitcase when Brandon strolled in like any other evening. Didn't ask about the luggage. Didn't even look at it. Just loosened his tie and said, casual as you please, "Hey Camilla, Sabrina's craving chicken soup."

My fist clenched so tight my nails bit into my palm. Suddenly I was back in his office that night, forced to kneel for hours because I refused to fetch Sabrina's coffee. Some twisted obedience lesson.

"Two more hours," I whispered to myself.

I zipped the bag and headed to the kitchen. Ten minutes later, Sabrina's saccharine giggle floated in. "Mmm, this soup is divine."

I watched Brandon's shoulders relax, that permanent tension around his mouth easing. Then he turned to me with that infuriating calm. "Camilla, as long as you treat Sabrina's baby like your own, I won't divorce you."

There was a time that word would've shattered me. Now? Now I pulled the divorce papers from my purse and slid them across the counter. "Sign them."

He didn't even look down. Just arched one condescending eyebrow. "Really? You think this pathetic reverse psychology works on me? I married you because you looked like her. Keep this up and I'll ship you overseas to rot."

Before I could respond, Sabrina gasped like a bad soap opera actress. "Brandon... I feel... itchy everywhere."

His head whipped around like she'd screamed. "What's wrong?"

Her performance was laughable - community theater level at best. But Brandon? Full panic mode. He lunged at me, face twisted in rage. "What the hell did you put in that soup?" He grabbed the bowl, shoved a spoonful in my mouth before I could blink.

Here's the kicker - I'm deathly allergic to chicken. He knew that.

My throat swelled shut within minutes. I hit the floor clawing at my neck, each breath like sucking air through a coffee stirrer. My vision tunneled as angry red welts bloomed across my skin.

And Brandon? He looked annoyed. Like I was inconveniencing him. Actually kicked me aside to get to Sabrina.

I blacked out after that. Woke to ambulance sirens, blinding hospital lights, the sharp bite of an IV.

When I walked back into that house thirty minutes later, their moans echoed down the staircase. "Easy, Brandon," Sabrina cooed. "Remember the baby..."