His Weak Woman

I Asked For Divorce While Pregnant

“Just thought it was proper you know,” Pinky said, hand still resting on her stomach like a trophy. “Since your ‘husband’ might’ve kept it from you.”

The word husband dripped poison from her tongue.

She turned to leave, pink heels clicking on marble. Each step said I won.

Watching her walk out, I should’ve felt broken. Empty. Destroyed.

Instead, I felt something else curl in my chest.

Relief.

Because now I had nothing left to lose.

*THREE MONTHS LATER*

The Taylor mansion felt like a tomb.

Charles was downstairs in the living room, feet up, watching some war documentary. Guns. Blood. Men screaming. That was his version of “relaxing”.

From our bedroom, I heard it before I saw it his voice, sharp as broken glass.

“You’re useless, Mercy! Can’t you even make coffee right?”

Mercy didn’t answer. She never did. Not once in 3 years had she threatened to quit. If not for me, she’d be long gone, back to her village with stories that would give her grandchildren nightmares.

But she stayed. Because I stayed.

Because a dove doesn’t abandon the other caged birds.

I walked downstairs, barefoot on cold marble. My wedding ring felt heavier every day. My stomach was still flat, but inside… two little heartbeats were growing stronger. My secret. My weapon. My reason to survive.

He was on the phone. Speaker on. Like he wanted me to hear.

“…Pink: A million dollars for upkeep, daddy. This baby needs the best.” Pinky’s voice was honey and greed.

“Charles Taylor: Say less.” Ping.Transfer confirmed on his iPad screen. $1,000,000. Sent.

He didn’t even look up when I appeared in the doorway.

I’d learned what a gold digger was without Google. Didn’t need a definition when the example was breathing in my house. Pinky and Charles weren’t love. They were transactions. Money for s*x. Money for womb. Money for access to the Taylor name.

Charles was too blinded by lust to see it.

Pinky was smart enough to exploit the gap.

And carrying his baby? That was her shortcut to becoming Mrs. Taylor without ever saying “I do”.

My husband finally noticed me. His eyes went cold. Angry. Like my existence was an inconvenience to his documentary.

Good. I was done being convenient.

“I want a divorce,” I said. Clear. Steady. No shake in my voice.

The room went silent except for the documentary gunfire.

He stared at me for 5 full seconds. Processing. Calculating. Then he stood up, set the remote down carefully like this was a board meeting, and walked out. No words. No fight.

For 5 minutes, I breathed.

For 5 minutes, I thought maybe the silent billionaire would let me go.

I was wrong.

He came back. Fast. His hand fisted in the fabric of my sleeveless dress and slammed me against the wall. The impact knocked air from my lungs. Photos crashed to the floor behind me.

“We’re done when I say we are,” he hissed, forearm pressed to my throat. My feet dangled inches off the floor. Spots danced in my vision. “You don’t get to decide, Nila. You never did.”

His thumb pressed against my windpipe. One more inch and I’d be dead.

Living proof that one day, I’d kick a bucket in this marriage if I didn’t kick him out first.

The monster wasn’t pretending anymore.

And neither was I.

*FLASHBACK: 15 YEARS AGO. HOMES HOUSEHOLD, QUEENS.*

Mummy shook me awake at 5:30 AM sharp. No snooze button in that house.

“Nila. Up. Tonny has school.”

My little brother was 6 and had the appetite of a grown man. Every morning it was me: braiding his hair, packing his lunch, making sure his uniform was ironed. Tonny was my responsibility. My job. My purpose.

Mummy and Papa worked double shifts. Someone had to be the parent when they weren’t home. So I became it. I served Tonny’s meals first, always. Watched him eat till his belly was round. His happiness was my happiness. That’s what “humble background” taught me love meant sacrifice.

“One day,” I whispered to Tonny while he chewed, “I’m gonna make Mummy and Papa so proud they’ll cry.”

He just grinned with rice on his teeth. “You already do, sis.”

That’s the girl I was. The girl who chose duty over herself.

That’s how I ended up with Charles Taylor. I thought suffering quietly was strength.

I was wrong about that too.

*PRESENT: TAYLOR MANSION, 6:12 PM*

My phone vibrated in my pocket. Unknown number. I knew who it was before I looked.

Papa T’s voice cracked through the speaker: “Charles is a menace, Nila!” My voice must’ve betrayed me on our last call. “I’m on my way to pick you up, baby girl. You have a home. Nobody lays a finger on you. Stay strong for us, okay?”

Papa T. My mountain. The man who taught me how to change a tire and how to punch a bully.

He was coming. And for the first time in months, I let myself hope.

*8:45 PM. Front Gates.*

Knock knock. Gentle. Respectful. Nothing like Charles.

Mercy opened the door. “Please, let me do this, Mercy. You don’t have to worry yourself,” Charles said, voice suddenly warm. Honeyed. Perfect son-in-law tone.

Then he pulled the door wide and my parents stepped into hell.

Charles transformed in 0.2 seconds. Back straight. Smile dazzling. Hand extended like he was greeting the Queen.

“Mr. and Mrs. Homes! Welcome! What an honor!” He actually bowed his head slightly. “Thank you for raising an angel for me. I don’t deserve her.”

Master manipulator. Emotional intelligence of a psychopath. He knew exactly which buttons to push on good people.

Papa T’s shoulders relaxed. Mummy’s eyes softened.

They believed him. Because good people always believe the lie before the truth.

They stayed for 2 hours. Tea. Small talk. Charles told stories about how “Nila saved him from his dark family history”. How I was “the calm in his storm”.

My stomach churned. My babies kicked inside me, like they could feel the lies too.

Then Papa stood up to leave. He paused at the door.

“How about my Nila? I haven’t seen her since we arrived. Can I speak with my daughter?”

Charles’s smile didn’t flicker. But his eyes did.

“Of course.” He turned toward the stairs. “She’s been resting. Come, Nila.”

I’d been in the bedroom the whole time. Entangled in thoughts, plotting, surviving. For a second, it felt like I was on drugs. Like none of this was real. Like I was dreaming a nightmare that refused to end.

“They want to leave,” Charles muttered once we were out of earshot. He laughed under his breath, but it was ugly. “But they want to see their daughter first.”

He grabbed my arm. Fingers dug into bruises from 3 months ago.

“Act cool,” he whispered, lips brushing my ear like a lover’s. The threat was ice. “Like we’re the perfect couple. Smile. Laugh. Touch my arm. Or I swear to God, Nila, you’ll leave this house in stitches. Medical ones.”

So we walked downstairs. Stopping every 3 steps so he could adjust my hair, straighten my dress, kiss my temple for the cameras only he could see.

“Beautiful wife,” he’d murmur loud enough for them to hear.

“Lucky husband,” I’d reply, digging nails into my palm to stay standing.

They bought it. Every second of it.

Mummy pulled me into a hug at the door. “Aaw dear, I know marriage isn’t a walk in the park. But you’re in the right hands. There comes a time when you leave your parents and build with someone you love. Mr. Charles Taylor is perfect for you.”

I hugged her back. Breathed in her shampoo. Memorized the feeling.

“I just missed you, Papa. And Mummy,” I said, and this time the tears were real. “Your presence means everything.”

They left believing their daughter was safe.

Believing the Taylor heir was a good man.

Believing I was happy.

The door closed. Lock clicked.

Charles dropped the act instantly. Turned to me, smile gone, eyes dead.

“Good girl,” he said. Then walked away like I was furniture.

I stood in the empty foyer, hand on my stomach. Two heartbeats answered mine.

They think I’m weak.

They think I’m trapped.

They think I’ll stay silent forever.

They’re about to learn what happens when a “barren witch” has nothing left to lose… and two heirs to protect.

Next move: Divorce papers. And a secret nobody sees coming.