The Consultant’s Postpartum Trap - Chapter 3: Chapter 3
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Ethan didn't say another word. His hands worked with quiet expertise, melting away my tension once more.
"All finished, Mrs. Laurent. That concludes our session."
His voice tugged me back from the brink of sleep.
I startled awake, pushing up from the couch and pulling off the eye mask.
"That's it already?"
I wasn't ready for it to end.
When I glanced up, I caught Ethan cleaning his hands with a wipe. A faint streak of something white lingered on it, and I quickly looked away, cheeks warming.
His expression gave nothing away—cool, composed.
"Yes, this should help with the discomfort. If you'd like to schedule again, just message me on WhatsApp."
He gathered his things and turned to leave.
I scrambled to follow, only to notice his gaze flick downward.
My blouse was still undone.
Then—the front door clicked open.
My stomach dropped.
My husband.
If he walked in and saw me like this with another man, he'd lose it.
I yanked my blouse closed just as Ethan reached the door.
Sure enough, the second my husband spotted a stranger in our house, his face darkened.
"Who the hell are you?"
My husband had a short fuse. Worried this might escalate, I stepped between them.
"Sweetheart, this is the new lactation consultant I hired. He just finished up."
"A male lactation consultant?" His expression turned thunderous. "What kind of guy goes into that field? Sounds shady as hell."
His eyes cut to me, sharp with suspicion. "Was it really just a massage? Nothing else?"
"Of course!"
The accusation stung. "Check the damn security feed if you don't believe me!"
We'd installed the living room camera to watch the baby.
I never thought its first real test would be proving my innocence.
Under my glare, my husband seemed to realize he'd crossed a line. His voice softened.
"Sorry. I overreacted."
"It's fine."
Ethan's tone was ice. Without another word—no hesitation, no backward glance—he left.
That, more than anything, seemed to ease my husband's doubts.
Still sensing my irritation, he pulled me into a hug. "Come on, babe, don't be mad. Any guy would've questioned that."
My eyes burned. Logically, I got it—but the hurt still simmered.
Postpartum emotions were no joke. The tears came before I could stop them.
Guilt twisted his face as he tried to coax a smile out of me.
I wasn't really angry. If our roles were reversed, I'd have questions too.
Pulling up the security footage, I shoved my phone at him. "Here. Watch it yourself. Nothing happened."
"Ethan came highly recommended by my best friend. He's young, but he's got over a decade of experience—total professional."
After his treatment, the engorgement had eased. Even breastfeeding felt less painful.
Though my husband claimed to trust me, his eyes stayed locked on the screen.
He watched every second.
Only when it ended did he finally relax.
"Next time you book a male consultant," he muttered, "make sure someone else is here."
I nodded absently, already brushing off the idea.
"All finished, Mrs. Laurent. That concludes our session."
His voice tugged me back from the brink of sleep.
I startled awake, pushing up from the couch and pulling off the eye mask.
"That's it already?"
I wasn't ready for it to end.
When I glanced up, I caught Ethan cleaning his hands with a wipe. A faint streak of something white lingered on it, and I quickly looked away, cheeks warming.
His expression gave nothing away—cool, composed.
"Yes, this should help with the discomfort. If you'd like to schedule again, just message me on WhatsApp."
He gathered his things and turned to leave.
I scrambled to follow, only to notice his gaze flick downward.
My blouse was still undone.
Then—the front door clicked open.
My stomach dropped.
My husband.
If he walked in and saw me like this with another man, he'd lose it.
I yanked my blouse closed just as Ethan reached the door.
Sure enough, the second my husband spotted a stranger in our house, his face darkened.
"Who the hell are you?"
My husband had a short fuse. Worried this might escalate, I stepped between them.
"Sweetheart, this is the new lactation consultant I hired. He just finished up."
"A male lactation consultant?" His expression turned thunderous. "What kind of guy goes into that field? Sounds shady as hell."
His eyes cut to me, sharp with suspicion. "Was it really just a massage? Nothing else?"
"Of course!"
The accusation stung. "Check the damn security feed if you don't believe me!"
We'd installed the living room camera to watch the baby.
I never thought its first real test would be proving my innocence.
Under my glare, my husband seemed to realize he'd crossed a line. His voice softened.
"Sorry. I overreacted."
"It's fine."
Ethan's tone was ice. Without another word—no hesitation, no backward glance—he left.
That, more than anything, seemed to ease my husband's doubts.
Still sensing my irritation, he pulled me into a hug. "Come on, babe, don't be mad. Any guy would've questioned that."
My eyes burned. Logically, I got it—but the hurt still simmered.
Postpartum emotions were no joke. The tears came before I could stop them.
Guilt twisted his face as he tried to coax a smile out of me.
I wasn't really angry. If our roles were reversed, I'd have questions too.
Pulling up the security footage, I shoved my phone at him. "Here. Watch it yourself. Nothing happened."
"Ethan came highly recommended by my best friend. He's young, but he's got over a decade of experience—total professional."
After his treatment, the engorgement had eased. Even breastfeeding felt less painful.
Though my husband claimed to trust me, his eyes stayed locked on the screen.
He watched every second.
Only when it ended did he finally relax.
"Next time you book a male consultant," he muttered, "make sure someone else is here."
I nodded absently, already brushing off the idea.
End of The Consultant’s Postpartum Trap Chapter 3. Continue reading Chapter 4 or return to The Consultant’s Postpartum Trap book page.