Night had settled over Veridia City. Beyond the penthouse windows, the skyline glittered—cold lights that kept shining no matter what happened below.
Water ran in the bathroom. Steam fogged the frosted glass shower door, turning Eric into a blurred shape behind it.
Eleanor lay against the headboard, scrolling, not really reading. Since the pregnancy, Eric had become a man of schedules—gone before sunrise, back after dark, as if the life inside her was something to avoid. When he was home, he buried himself in his phone or locked himself in the study, the door shut tight.
Tonight she'd finally pinned him down at home. She'd been carrying around these small, hopeful questions for days—names, hospital bags, who would stay with her during delivery—little things that kept coming up whenever she tried to picture a future that didn't fall apart. She was exhausted, but she stayed awake, thumb idly sliding over the screen, waiting for him to step out of the bathroom and truly be here.
A faint buzz came from under his pillow.
She slid her hand beneath the pillowcase and found something hard and cold—metal edges—the wrong weight.
A phone lit up in her hand.
Not Eric's usual one. Not anything she recognized.
A Facebook Messenger banner flashed on the lock screen. Her eyes snagged on the message, and her stomach dropped, fast and hard.
Tonight? Coming over? I can't wait.
The profile photo was a too-perfect crop of a woman's body—skin and curves framed like a product shot. A pose that sold one thing and didn't bother pretending otherwise.
Eleanor's stomach did a slow, nauseating flip. She glanced toward the bathroom. The water was still running. Through the frosted glass, Eric's blurred silhouette shifted.
Her thumb hovered over the screen, trembling.
She tried to swipe up. Face ID failed.
The keypad appeared, demanding six digits.
She punched in her birthday.
The phone buzzed. Wrong.
Eric's birthday.
Wrong.
Their anniversary.
Still wrong.
The shower cut off. The sudden silence was deafening.
Eleanor's pulse pounded in her throat. She had seconds—maybe less—before he stepped out. The code. Think. What was the code?
She bolted toward the desk in the corner of the bedroom. Last month, while they were organizing hospital paperwork, she'd seen him scribble a string of digits in the margin of a leather-bound notebook. She'd dismissed it as a project code or a new account number.
She shoved a pile of mail aside, her breath coming in shallow hitches. She found the notebook tucked under his laptop and flipped it open. There it was, scrawled in his messy, hurried hand.
She memorized the sequence, scrambled back to the bed, and punched it in.
The phone unlocked.
Eleanor could barely breathe. She tapped open the Messenger alert.
A private thread filled the screen. The same woman's icon pinned to the top.
Eleanor scrolled.
Each line was a gut punch.
I'm still thinking about last night. I can't even walk straight today. You're trouble…
The words sat there—intimate, reckless. Eleanor's breath hitched, trapped high in her chest. Her fingers kept moving anyway, driven by a sick compulsion, as if looking away would make her complicit in the lie.
Then the photos loaded.
It was Eric. He was naked, sprawled on a bed she didn't recognize. His mouth was pulled into a grin she'd never seen before—cocky and smug. These weren't selfies; the angles shifted as the person behind the lens moved around him, within arm's reach.
The woman wasn't in frame.
She didn't have to be.
More messages followed. The where, the when, and how soon they could do it again. Eleanor scrolled faster, punishing herself with every word. Her toes went numb. A cold seam of dread worked its way up from the floorboards, turning her blood to ice.
She looked down at her own body. She was eight months along, heavy with twins.
Her skin felt stretched to the breaking point. She was already struggling for air, and now the room tilted, as if the apartment had decided it couldn't hold her up anymore.
And the man who'd promised her forever had been out there—somewhere—letting someone arrange him like a prize. Like proof.
The bathroom door creaked open.
Eric stepped out, rubbing a towel through his hair. He saw the phone in Eleanor's hands and the color drained from his face—then his expression hardened.
"What the hell are you doing?" His voice was stone cold.
Eleanor flinched, nearly dropping it. She gripped the device and shoved the screen toward him.
"Who is she?"
His eyes flicked over it—one quick glance—then his lip curled. "You went through my phone? You're violating my privacy, Eleanor. Jesus. Don't be a psycho."
"A psycho?" The word came out ragged. Her voice trembled with heat. "These photos. These messages. Tell me who she is. What have you been doing behind my back?"
"You're not rational right now—"
"Don't." Eleanor's voice rose, turning sharp. "Don't you dare blame my hormones. How long? Weeks? Months? Where does she live? When you were in her bed, did you even give a damn about your wife and your kids?"
"I'm not doing this," Eric snapped. "Not when you're acting like this."
"Like what?" Her laugh splintered. "You're the one who started this."
Eric's jaw clenched. He snatched his shirt off the chair and threw on his clothes with sharp, jagged movements.
"Enough," he snapped. "You think being pregnant gives you a pass to control every move I make? Snooping through my shit, screaming at me—God, Eleanor, I'm done with you."
The words hit like a physical blow. He didn't slow down.
"Look at you. You're a wreck. All you do is pick fights. So I found a little fun—so what? You're gonna lose your shit over a few messages?"
"Fun?" Eleanor's voice cracked on the word. "You call this fun? Our marriage—our kids—that's just 'fun' to you? You bastard." She shoved the phone at him again. "I'm asking you one more time. Who is she?"
Eric looked at her like she was a nuisance, a problem he couldn't be bothered to solve. No warmth. No guilt. Just a flat, cold disgust.
He threw on his jacket and headed for the door.
"I can't deal with this. Get a grip."
"Where the hell are you going?!" Eleanor shrieked, her mind spiraling. She could already see it—him walking out that door and straight into that woman's arms.
"None of your business."
"Eric—" Eleanor tried to stand, but her belly anchored her to the bed. The mattress held her, its weight pinning her down while something inside her snapped.
"If you walk out that door," she gasped, "don't you dare come back."
The door slammed shut.
His footsteps faded down the hall. He didn't even hesitate.
The moment he was gone, the fire in Eleanor's chest flickered out, leaving nothing but a hollow, scorched quiet.
The bedroom went totally silent. The whole fight already felt like a fever dream—she couldn't believe those words had actually come out of her mouth. She just lay there, staring at the ceiling, the bed sheets all kicked around. Her hands felt heavy and useless at her sides.
Eleanor sat there, just trying to breathe. Her ears were ringing, and her thoughts started drifting into a dark place.
Is it me?
She looked down. The nightgown stretched taut over her belly, the fabric strained to the point of sheen. Her feet were so swollen they were unrecognizable—monstrous things that didn't even feel like hers.
Tears splashed onto the back of her hand—hot and humiliating.
Then her abdomen clenched.
It wasn't just a flutter or a normal kick.
It felt like the twins could sense her panic. They were thrashing inside her, frantic, and the pressure built again—deeper this time—grinding into her spine.
At first, she tried to tell herself it was just the babies being active, but then the first real wave hit.
It was a vice.
Eleanor hissed air through her teeth. She tried to breathe the way the birthing class had taught her. In through the nose. Slow breath out.
The next contraction hit before she could even finish the exhale, stronger and sharper than the last.
Eleanor curled onto her side, white-knuckling the sheets. Sweat broke out along her hairline. Each wave of pain wrenched through her, tearing her apart.
She fumbled for her phone and called Eric.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
It went straight to voicemail every time.
"Pick up," she whispered, her throat raw. "Eric, please. Pick up—"
Nothing.
The pain cinched tight. Her lungs hitched.
Another contraction ripped through her. Eleanor arched with a strangled gasp—and then, a rush of warm liquid between her legs. It soaked her clothes, then the mattress.
Her water broke.
Her hands shook so hard she almost missed the buttons, but she forced her fingers to obey.
"911, what's your emergency?"
Eleanor's words came out in fragments, choked by ragged breaths. "I'm… in labor. Twins. My water just broke—" She swallowed hard, trying to steady herself. "Eighteen Swan Lake Road. The penthouse. Please."
"Okay, ma'am. Stay with me now." The dispatcher's voice was calm, an anchor in the dark. "We've got your location. Help is on the way. Try to lie flat. Do not push. Are you alone? Is the door locked?"
"Alone," Eleanor managed. "It's locked."
"Copy that. Paramedics will breach if they have to. Just keep breathing for me."
Minutes stretched until they stopped feeling like time at all—just a blur. Eleanor's vision began to tunnel. The city lights beyond the glass warped and smeared, glittering like a cruel joke.
…
Then—a thud. Heavy blows against the front door.
"EMS! Open up!" a voice barked from the hall.
"Here!" someone shouted.
A flashlight beam swept across her face—blindingly bright—then snapped away.
Uniforms flooded the room. Hands braced her shoulders. Someone supported her head. A man's voice called out, quick and clinical.
"Patient is fading. BP is dropping, heart rate's climbing. Water's broken—she's fully dilated. Twins. We've got a STAT situation here. Let's move!"
The stretcher slid under her. Straps clicked into place. She was rigid with pain, but the presence of these people—the competent hands, the rapid-fire voices—gave her something to hold onto.
The sirens wailed.
The ambulance tore through the rainy night.
Eleanor's world narrowed to flashing lights and the relentless pressure inside her, until even that blurred into gray.
Then everything went dark.