HIS MISTRESS, MY REVENGE

Chapter Four: The Morning She Collapsed

I did not sleep that night.

I lay in the guest room and listened to them downstairs, his voice and hers, easy and low, the sound of two people completely at home with each other, until the house finally went quiet somewhere past midnight. Then I stared at the ceiling until morning came and did it all over again the next day and the day after that.

By the fourth day I had stopped eating properly. I knew that. I just could not make myself care enough to fix it. I would stand in the kitchen and open the fridge and look at everything inside it and close it again. I would make tea and forget to drink it. I moved through the house like something that had lost the instructions for being a person and was improvising badly.

That morning Damien left with Vanessa at eight without a word to me.

I heard them from the hallway. Her laugh. His keys. The door.

I went to the kitchen. I stood at the counter. I filled the kettle.

And then the room tilted and I grabbed for the edge and missed and that was the last thing I knew.

I woke up in a hospital bed.

Not gradually. Not with someone sitting beside me easing me into it. I simply opened my eyes and the ceiling was wrong and the smell was wrong and there was a monitor beside me and a blood pressure cuff loose around my arm and a nurse adjusting something at the foot of the bed.

Claire had found me on the kitchen floor. That was what the nurse told me when I asked. Claire had called 911 and then called Damien and then stayed on the floor beside me until the ambulance came. I did not remember any of it. One moment I was at the counter. The next I was here.

I looked at the chair beside the bed.

Nobody was there.

I lay still for a moment and breathed and then I pressed the call button and when the nurse appeared I asked her how long I had been here.

“About two hours,” she said. “We contacted your emergency contact. He said he was on his way.”

I looked at the empty chair again.

“Thank you,” I said.

I closed my eyes.

He arrived forty minutes later.

I heard him before I saw him, his voice in the corridor, speaking to someone on the phone, wrapping it up as he came through the curtain. He looked good. Of course he looked good. Pressed shirt, jacket, the particular groomed ease of a man whose morning had gone normally. He pulled the chair close to the bed and sat down and looked at me with an expression I recognised, the careful neutral face he put on when he wanted to appear concerned without actually committing to it.

And underneath the cologne he always wore, something else.

Something floral and warm and not mine.

Vanessa’s perfume.

He had come from her. He had been with her when the hospital called and he had come here directly and he had not thought, or had not cared, that I would be able to smell exactly where he had been on the way to my hospital bed.

I said nothing.

The doctor came in minutes later. Young, calm, the kind of composed that comes from delivering hard news regularly enough that you develop a system for it. She looked at her notes, then at me, then briefly at Damien.

“Mrs. Sinclair,” she said. “We have your results.” She glanced briefly at Damien and then back at me. “You collapsed from severe exhaustion and low blood sugar. You are significantly dehydrated and your iron levels are critically low. Your body has been running on very little for some time.” She paused. “We also found elevated cortisol levels, which tells us you have been under a great deal of prolonged stress. That alone can cause the body to shut down the way yours did this morning.”

Damien’s phone rang.

He looked at the screen. That small shift in his posture, the one I knew, the one that meant something elsewhere had just become more important than whatever room he was currently in.

“I have to take this,” he said. Already standing. “It’s important. I’ll be right back.”

He walked out before the doctor could respond. Before I could say a word.

The doctor watched him go. Then she looked back at me with the careful composure of someone who had seen this room do many things and had learned not to comment.

“There is something else,” she said. Her voice was quieter now. Just the two of us. “Something I need you to be prepared for.”

I looked at her.

“You are pregnant,” she said. “Eight weeks.”

The curtain around the bed seemed to breathe.

I stared at her. “Say that again.”

“Eight weeks pregnant,” she said. Steady. Certain.

I lay back against the pillow and I looked at the ceiling and I felt every contradicting thing press against each other inside my chest at once. Eight weeks. This had been growing inside me before any of it. Before the birthday. Before Vanessa walked through my front door. Before the key on the tablecloth and Beatrice's voice and the guest room and all of it. While I was still the woman who ironed the tablecloth and wore the blue dress and believed tonight was worth celebrating, this was already there. Quietly. Without my permission.

Without anyone knowing.

Something I had wanted for five years.

Something Beatrice had used as a weapon against me.

The doctor reached for the small monitor on the table. “I want to do a quick scan,” she said gently. “Just to check on things.”

She pressed the probe to my stomach and turned the screen toward me and there it was. Small and flickering and absolutely real. A heartbeat. Steady and fast and completely indifferent to the chaos of the world it had chosen to arrive in.

I could not speak.

I looked at that heartbeat and something cracked open in the center of my chest, not painfully, just wide, like a window painted shut for years finally giving.

Damien did not come back.

The scan finished. The doctor went over the next steps, the observation, the tests, the things I needed to do and not do. I listened and nodded and kept both hands flat on my stomach and I waited for the curtain to move.

It did not move.

The doctor lowered the probe. She did not say anything. She was too professional to say anything. But she looked at me with the carefully neutral expression of someone who has seen this room do many things to many people and has learned not to be surprised.

I looked at the screen. The image was gone now. Just a dark monitor. But I could still see it, that small impossible flicker, that heartbeat that did not know yet what it had been born into.

The doctor finished her notes. The nurse came. The room did what rooms do when consultations end. And I lay there in the middle of all of it with both hands pressed flat against my stomach and I waited for Damien to come back through that curtain.

He did not come back.

I stared at the ceiling for a long time.

Then I picked up my phone and I called Sophia.

And for the first time since my birthday, I did not tell her I was fine.