My Fiancé Had A Secret Wife Chapter 04
I went home. I threw out every last thing that had anything to do with them. I packed my bags. I put the apartment on the market.
Adrian got the listing notification and came tearing back.
“Evelyn, you sold our home? Have you lost your mind?”
I slapped him across the face. Hard.
“Yes. I’ve lost my mind. And you did it to me.”
He didn’t get angry. His voice softened, the way it always did after a fight.
“Are you done? Feel better? Look, I lied to you. I know that. But it’s been seven years. Seven years, Evelyn. You can’t seriously throw all of it away over this—”
“You gave me my life back. How could I ever really leave you?”
“Because of your wife?” I laughed, cold. “You have a child with her, Adrian.”
I didn’t want to hear another word of it. I turned to go.
He caught me and pulled me hard against his chest.
“Vivian Pierce is Charles Pierce’s only daughter. Her father asked me to look after her. I never meant to fall for her—but I love you too. I’ve always loved you.”
“I never wanted to lose either of you. Just pretend none of this happened. Please. Marry me. Let me give you everything I ever promised. Please, Evelyn.”
I stared at him. The disgust was so thick in my throat I couldn’t get a word out.
He took my silence for a yes. And with the same mouth that had just been on Vivian, he kissed my forehead.
The next second, the door flew open. Lucas had kicked it in.
Serena was right behind him. She stormed straight up to me and slapped me across the face.
“Where is he?” she screamed. “Evelyn, where the hell did you take Vivian’s baby?!”
Vivian dropped to her knees in front of me, her face streaked with tears.
“Dr. Hart—please. Take Adrian. Take everything. Just give me my son back. Don’t hurt him. I’m begging you—”
Every trace of tenderness drained out of Adrian’s face.
“What are you talking about? Where’s my son?”
“Noah is gone!” Serena spat. “Who else could it be but her?!”
I didn’t get a single word out before Adrian’s hand closed around my throat.
“Did you take him? Evelyn—did you take my son from the hospital?!”
“I’m a doctor,” I choked out. “I don’t hurt babies. Adrian—let go!”
He hurled me sideways, rage vibrating off him.
“Tell me where my son is!”
I coughed, gasping. “I already told you. It wasn’t me. Why won’t you believe me?”
“You’re still lying!” Lucas’s eyes were bloodshot. “One more word out of you and I’m putting you in a cell!”
Serena grabbed a fistful of my hair and hauled me into the utility room.
“Vivian was in labor with Noah for eighteen hours, and you go after her baby? You sick bitch!”
She shoved me back against the metal shelving and dug into her bag. When her hand came back out, there was a syringe in it.
“Tell me where the baby is. Don’t make me do this.”
I recognized the label the second I saw it.
Carboprost. A high-potency prostaglandin.
On a woman who wasn’t pregnant, it was torture—hours of cramping, vomiting, incontinence. Then it metabolized clean out. No evidence, no trace.
But I was pregnant. And it would kill my baby.
I’d been planning to tell them the news yesterday. Instead I’d walked into their betrayal.
“No—you can’t do this to me!” I tried to stop her. “I’m preg—”
“Enough! You brought this on yourself!”
She didn’t hesitate. The needle went in.
The drug hit faster than I expected. My abdomen seized in a wave of cramping so violent I doubled over. Whatever was in my stomach came up onto the floor.
And then—warmth. Running down the inside of my thigh.
Everyone froze.
“Evelyn—you…”
Then Vivian’s phone rang.
“We found Noah. Get to the hospital, now.”
The door banged open.
Not one of them looked back.
I lay there on the utility room floor, watching the red bloom across the fabric of my dress. The tears came, and I let them.
Just before I lost consciousness, I dug the last of my strength out of my chest and dialed 911.
I woke up in a hospital bed.
The head nurse sighed as she told me they’d had a scare that morning—some careless woman on the maternity floor had almost gotten a baby killed, and now the family was up there tearing the department apart, blaming the staff for negligence.
I laughed at the ceiling. Then I asked her, quietly, to pull me a copy of the maternity floor’s security footage for the day.
I watched it through to the last frame. Then I slid the USB drive and the blood-stained pregnancy report into an envelope and asked her to deliver it to the apartment—leave it on the coffee table.
Then I signed myself out and headed straight for the airport.
…
A few hours later, Adrian and the others came back to the apartment with the baby.
He walked into the living room still holding a strawberry pastry from that bakery on Elm Street.
The kind I used to love.
The kind he always bought when he was trying to smooth something over with me.
Then he saw the blood on the utility room floor. And the pregnancy report on the coffee table. And the USB drive next to it.
The pastry box slid out of his hand and hit the floor with a dull thud.