His First Love Killed My Unborn - Chapter 1: Chapter 1

Eight months pregnant, and Ian Shaw was dead set on dragging me back to his hometown for New Year's.
I refused, terrified for the baby's safety. But he exploded, smashing our brand-new tea set in a fit of rage.
On the day we left, we pulled into a gas station—and there she was. His first love, Paula Keith, waiting for a bus home.
In that sickly-sweet voice of hers, she cooed, "Ian, take me home first. Sherrie won't mind, right?"
Ian didn't even hesitate. "She's done nothing but eat and sleep this whole pregnancy. The baby's better off if she stays in the back."
Paula flashed me a smirk and slid into the passenger seat like she owned it.
Halfway there, a searing pain tore through my stomach. I begged him to take me to the hospital.
His face went cold. Then he shoved me out of the car. "Stop using the baby as an excuse. If you don't want to come, then don't. Get out."
The tires screeched as he sped off, leaving me crumpled on the roadside, gasping in agony.
When I woke up, the voices above me were hushed.
"If she'd made it here twenty minutes sooner, we might've saved the baby."
"Running around like that at eight months… The poor thing suffocated. This is on the mother."
Tears burned down my cheeks. My baby was gone.
The heart monitor's shrill alarm was the last thing I heard before everything went black.
When I opened my eyes again, the hospital room was silent. Outside, the night was thick and endless, like spilled ink.
I just stared at the ceiling, hollow.
Then my phone lit up.
I answered mechanically.
Ian's voice crackled through, sharp with irritation. "Sherrie, it's been two days! No calls, no texts—how long are you gonna keep this act up?"
I closed my eyes. "Ian. I'm in the hospital."
"Cut the crap! You just didn't want to go to my parents' place, did you?" His voice climbed, defensive and vicious.
I didn't fight back. Just said, flat and empty, "Are you done? If not, I'm hanging up."
"Oh, so now you're gonna hang up on me? If you've got any sense left, get on a bus and come back. Maybe then I'll forgive you!"
I ended the call.
He blew up my phone seven more times. I silenced it, watching the screen flash and die over and over.
Then came the Instagram DM.
"Fine! Be stubborn! Spend New Year's alone! Don't even think about asking me to come get you!"
I almost laughed.
Before we got married, he'd drive hours back from his hometown just to see me.
When I was scared of the dark, he'd leave every light on for me.
After we said "I do," he'd rush home early just to hold me.
Now? None of that mattered.
Then the group chat notification popped up.
[Paula Keith]: "Hey everyone! My birthday's February 8th! Mommy's throwing a party at home—you all better come! Candy for everyone!"
Her profile picture was a pouty selfie.
[Ian Shaw]: "Let's make it a reunion, guys!"
My stomach dropped. Since when did he rename the group?
When we first got together, he'd proudly added me to his high school chat, introducing me to all his old friends.
I never spoke in it. Guess he forgot I was even there.
Messages flooded in—congrats, cheers, heart emojis. Each one felt like a knife twisting deeper.
[Paula Keith]: "Thanks, everyone! Phone's dying—power's out at home. Don't forget the 8th!"