My Husband's Secret Son Needs My Baby to Live - Chapter 4: Chapter 4

A bowl of chicken soup materialized in my blurry vision. I blinked away the tears and looked up to see Marlon standing there, exhaustion lining his face.
His rough thumb brushed the dampness from the corners of my eyes.
"You haven't changed," he murmured, voice weary. "Still crying when you're pregnant."
My mind drifted back hazily to that time—the nausea, the relentless vomiting, the days when I couldn't keep anything down. Marlon had learned to make chicken soup just for me, desperate to keep me nourished.
But no matter how much I forced it down, my body only grew weaker.
I couldn't stomach it, yet I couldn't bear to reject his effort.
The last time I drank his soup—right before the miscarriage—I remembered the hesitation in his eyes.
What's wrong? I'd asked.
He'd pulled me into a crushing embrace, voice breaking. "It's my fault. I made you suffer. I don't want the child anymore. Just you and me—that's enough."
I'd laughed, called him a fool for loving me so much.
But I was the real fool.
How could his fragile ego ever have allowed me to carry a child to term?
That look in his eyes—I'd mistaken it for pity. But it was guilt. The kind that comes from knowing exactly what you've done.
Repentance. Over and over, for the life he'd snuffed out with his own hands.
Now, staring at the man I'd loved for twenty years, I realized I'd never truly known him.
A bitter laugh rose in my chest. Marlon, why didn't you just talk to me?!
My parents only wanted the first child to take my surname. I would've given you a second. A third. After lifting your family out of poverty, after securing your status—was I not even worthy of that?
My hand shot out, knocking the soup from his grip. The thermos clattered to the floor, broth splattering. My whole body trembled with rage.
Marlon, I seethed silently, I'll be waiting for you to lose your mind in a week.
He frowned. "What the hell was that for?"
Before I could answer, a slender woman burst into the room, scrambling to pick up the fallen thermos.
"Marlon, don't be upset," she fretted. "Maybe my cooking just isn't to Margret's taste."
My breath caught.
So he hadn't come alone. He'd brought her—his mistress—to flaunt their affair right in front of me.
Melanie was beautiful.
The strain of caring for her sick son had left her looking worn, but it only made her more delicate, more pitiable.
My fingers instinctively touched my own face.
Youth was long gone.
I could never pull off that fragile, doe-eyed look again.
Not that Marlon noticed. His attention was locked onto Melanie, his hands already gripping hers, inspecting imaginary burns with frantic concern.
"Marlon, I'm fine," she murmured, casting a nervous glance my way. "Margret's the one who needs care right now."
Then she turned toward the door and beckoned.
A bald little boy shuffled in.
"Isaias," she coaxed, "come say hello to your aunt."
The child's expression was eerily blank as Melanie guided him to my bedside.
Then—without warning—his small hand pressed against my stomach.
"Feel it, Isaias," Melanie whispered, voice sickly sweet. "Your aunt's carrying a little brother. He's going to save you. Just a few more months, and the pain will be over."
Her words were needles, each one laced with poison.
She wasn't just hoping for my child's birth.
She was counting on its death.