Chapter 3 - The Hospital Truth
The emergency room lights were too bright.
Everything smelled like antiseptic and plastic.
Nurses rushed around me.
A doctor pressed an ultrasound wand against my stomach while another monitored the baby’s heartbeat.
Ethan stood beside the bed, pale and motionless.
For ten minutes, nobody spoke.
Then the doctor looked up.
“The baby has a stable heartbeat.”
My body sagged with relief.
Ethan closed his eyes.
“But,” the doctor continued carefully, “your wife is showing signs of placental abruption. We are admitting her immediately. She needs continuous monitoring, and there is a possibility we may have to deliver the baby early.”
“Can I see her?” Ethan asked.
“She needs rest first.”
“I’m staying.”
The doctor nodded.
After the medical team left, silence filled the room.
Ethan sat in the chair beside my bed.
He looked exhausted.
Broken.
His tuxedo shirt was still stained with dust from the foyer floor.
For a long time, he did not ask about Allison’s words.
Neither did I.
Because I was afraid.
Not of the question.
Of the answer.
Finally, Ethan spoke.
“Claire.”
I looked at him.
“Is this baby mine?”
The room became quiet.
I stared at the ceiling.
Eleven years of marriage.
A nursery painted pale green.
A name list taped inside my bedside drawer.
A baby shower planned by my sister.
And somehow, we had arrived at this moment.
My husband sitting beside a hospital bed after his mistress pushed me down the stairs.
Asking whether the child I carried belonged to him.
“Yes,” I whispered.
Ethan stared at me.
“Yes?”
“Yes. The baby is yours.”
He leaned forward, placing both hands over his face.
For several seconds, he did not speak.
Then he looked up.
“Did Allison ever say anything to you?”
“No.”
“Did anyone?”
“No.”
“Then why would she say it?”
“I don’t know.”
But even as I said the words, something old moved through my memory.
Six months earlier.
A fertility appointment.
A blood test.
A call from an unfamiliar clinic.
A nurse telling me that one of my prenatal records had been transferred incorrectly.
At the time, I assumed it was a billing issue.
I had never mentioned it to Ethan.
I had forgotten about it.
Now I remembered something else.
The caller had asked for my medical record number.
Then she had asked a strange question.
Had I undergone any fertility treatments before conceiving?
I told her no.
The caller apologized and ended the call.
At the time, it seemed meaningless.
Now it did not.
“Ethan,” I said slowly.
He looked at me.
“Six months ago, someone called about my medical records.”
“What kind of records?”
“Prenatal records. They asked whether I had fertility treatment.”
His expression changed.
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Did Allison know about the call?”
“I don’t know.”
But I did know one thing.
Allison had been more than Ethan’s business consultant.
She had helped organize our lives.
She knew our travel plans.
She knew our schedules.
She knew when I would be home.
She knew where I kept gift envelopes.
She knew which days Ethan had meetings and which nights he came home late.
And she knew more about my pregnancy than I had realized.
Ethan stood.
“I’m calling Detective Cole.”
“No.”
He froze.
“Claire—”
“I want the truth before you start tearing everything apart.”
He looked at me with a pain I had never seen in him before.
“You are in a hospital because I let a dangerous woman into our lives.”
“You didn’t know she would push me.”
“I knew she was too close.”
The words came quietly.
“I knew people were whispering. I knew you had asked why she texted after midnight. I told myself it was work because admitting anything else would mean admitting I was enjoying the attention.”
I closed my eyes.
Ethan sat back down.
“I was selfish,” he said. “And whatever happens next, I will not lie to you again.”
For the first time since I fell, I believed he meant it.
Then Detective Cole entered with a forensic officer.
“We identified the male voice on the recording,” the detective said.
Ethan stood immediately.
“Who is he?”
Detective Cole placed a photograph on the table.
The man in the image wore a gray suit and smiled beside Allison at a corporate fundraising event.
I recognized him.
Dr. Martin Voss.
The fertility specialist Ethan and I had consulted three years earlier when we first began trying to have a baby.
May you like
“He’s a doctor,” I whispered.
“He was,” Detective Cole said. “His medical license is currently under review in two states. He is also Allison Mercer’s brother.”
