The Sixth Baby Won’t Be His - Chapter 2: Chapter 2

He used to promise me he'd be my shelter, my safe harbor through life's storms. That he'd protect me until the day I died. Like a fool, I believed him. I gave him everything—my body, my heart, my soul. When he asked for a secret marriage, I said yes without question. He claimed marrying someone from "my background" might hurt Raymond Group's stock price.
Every time I got pregnant, Gerrald would light up like a kid on Christmas morning, whooping about becoming a dad. He'd scoop me into his arms, his excitement contagious. "I won't let you suffer," he'd say, ordering his private doctor to put me under general anesthesia so I wouldn't feel a thing. And each time, he'd stand vigil like I was some priceless artifact in a museum.
I actually thought he cared. About me. About our baby. The truth? He was just making it easier to murder our child with his bare hands—fresh specimens for his precious Lydia. And like an idiot, I blamed myself. Convinced my body was broken, that I couldn't carry to term. I'd sob over each loss, begging his forgiveness for failing him. Looking back? I wasn't just a fool. I was the whole damn circus.
That night, I waited until Gerrald stepped into the shower. Three taps on my phone: abortion clinic booked. Plane ticket purchased. In seventy-two hours, I'd vanish. When he emerged, towel-drying his hair, he dropped it casually like he was discussing the weather:
"Babe, I've got an overseas trip in three days. Probably gone a month."
A month. Exactly how long his wedding and honeymoon would take. I made my voice small, testing him: "Gerrald... I haven't been feeling great. Could you stay? Just... be with me?"
His face darkened instantly. "Jenny. Seven years and you still don't get it? I don't tolerate women meddling in my work." The ice in his voice could've frozen hell. "Be a good girl and wait. I'll bring you a present."
My last hope shattered. I ducked my head, swallowing the acid rising in my throat. "You're right. I'm being selfish. Go ahead."
Pleased, his expression thawed. He shoved me onto the bed, whiskey breath hot in my ear: "The nutritionist says you're recovered. Let's make a baby tonight. I want to watch our child grow up with you."
Bile burned my tongue. I pushed him off gently. "Not when you're drunk. It could hurt the baby."
Knowing how obsessive I was about this, he didn't suspect a thing. A kiss on my forehead, then he passed out. The second his breathing evened, I slid my hand into his jacket pocket.
That's when I found it.
A second phone.
My fingers shook as I powered it on. The lockscreen hit me like a gut punch—Gerrald and Lydia, lips locked. I punched in Lydia's birthday. The screen unlocked.
The first message in their chat turned my blood to ice:
A photo of my stillborn.
Gerrald's text:
[Lydia, specimen's ready. Helicopter delivery this afternoon. Fresh—won't skew your research data.]
Another:
[Out of specimens already? Don't worry. Jenny's knocked up again. I'll induce early. You'll have a new one soon. My girl's going to be the best damn doctor.]
Then:
[When are you coming back to Brooklyn? I've been saving the wife title for you. Jenny's just a stress reliever.]
My hands convulsed over my stomach. This baby... this baby should never exist.
I kept scrolling.
Thousands of photos. Them as kids. Them as teens. Them last week. Every picture captioned with love notes. Seven years of my secret marriage, and his "business trips" were just fuck-cations with her.
But the real knife twist? His drafts folder.
Over a hundred wedding plans. Venues. Flower arrangements. Vows. All handwritten by Gerrald.
For her.