THE WORST BETRAYAL

Delilah’s Point of View

“Everything has been set. The car tracker shows that she is on her way to the hotel as we speak.”

I read the message my younger sister sent me, and a wicked smile curls on my lips. The trap has been laid perfectly. I have waited too long for this moment, and soon Emily will witness the truth with her own eyes. She will finally know that her precious husband, Jackson, has been mine for years.

I smooth down the satin red dress that hugs every curve of my body. The slit along the side rides high, revealing just enough leg to keep Jackson intrigued but not suspicious. My fake baby bump presses tightly against the fabric, giving me the illusion of carrying his child. The irony makes me chuckle. I went all out tonight : flawless makeup, blood-red lips, and stilettos that could stab the heart of any woman who dares to cross me. But it is not the heels doing the stabbing tonight, it is the truth.

As soon as we enter the hotel room, I walk over to the minibar and pour Jackson his favorite whiskey : two cubes of ice, no more. I know how to calm him. I know how to lull him into comfort. Every little detail matters because I need him in that room when Emily walks in.

Jackson takes the glass from me, his eyes scanning me with a mixture of desire and confusion. He tries to speak, to bring up why we are meeting on such short notice, but I cut him off with chatter about work, travel, anything to keep him distracted. I cannot let him leave before she arrives.

He finally places the glass on the nightstand, clears his throat, and fixes me with a cold, almost detached stare.

“Delilah, I think it is best that we put an end to this relationship,” he says flatly. “Emily’s due date is near. I need to focus on my little family. I do not need distractions.”

His words hit me like a slap across the face, but I do not let it show. Five years. Five years of lies, lust, and stolen time, and this man dares to treat me like some passing fling? I place my hand over my faux bump and let my eyes well with fake tears.

“You cannot just walk away, Jackson. I am carrying your child,” I whisper, voice trembling on cue.

He narrows his eyes at me. “You will never be half the woman Emily is.”

That one sentence cuts deeper than I expected. My fists clench behind my back, but my smile does not waver. Instead, I soften my voice, letting the emotion crack through.

“Then give me just one last night,” I plead. “Let me say goodbye the right way.”

His expression shifts, lust darkening his features. He nods slowly, foolishly thinking I want him one last time. What a pathetic man. I reach for the buttons on his shirt, fingers slow and sensual, feeding the illusion.

He has not seen me undressed since my fake belly began to show. It has been four long months of dodging intimacy and staying one step ahead. I cannot risk him discovering the truth that there is no child. Just a carefully crafted lie.

Suddenly, a knock at the door interrupts our twisted dance.

My heart skips.

I pray it is not room service. I cannot stall much longer. The fool beside me is seconds from pouncing. I glide across the room, stalling with every step, hoping and praying that it is her.

Emily.

Emily’s Point of View

My palms are damp, and my heart feels like a wild animal caged in my chest. The ride here was a blur. I do not even remember getting dressed, but somehow I am in one of my favorite maternity dresses, the pale blue one Jackson once said made me glow.

As I step out of the cab in front of the luxurious five-star hotel, my belly shifts and I pause. A sudden kick from inside startles me.

“Ow,” I whisper, gently rubbing my side. The babies’ movements are sharper these days. Stronger. Like they know something is wrong too.

There is another kick. A hard one.

“It is okay, babies,” I murmur, trying to soothe all of us. “We are going to be okay.”

I walk into the hotel, pretending to be calm. My heels click against the marble floors with the confidence I do not feel. I keep my head high. I have been here before, for brunch with Jackson. I remember the chandeliers, the scent of roses in the lobby, the friendly staff. All of it now feels fake. Like part of a dream I am about to wake up from.

The elevator doors open, and I step inside. A hotel staff member joins me , a young man with kind eyes. I slip a hundred-dollar bill into his hand, hoping the desperation in my voice does not give me away.

“Room seven. Please. Take me there.”

He nods, no questions asked. On the way up, my babies kick again, this time a steady rhythm against my ribs. Each movement is a reminder that I am not alone. That whatever I am about to walk into, I must survive. For them.

Room number seven.

He leaves me at the door.

I take a deep breath, every bone in my body trembling. My hand shakes as I knock.

The door opens almost immediately.

She was expecting me.

Delilah stands there, glowing. Her red dress is flawless, her belly proudly displayed. Her eyes sparkle, and her lips part into a smile that makes my stomach twist.

“Emily,” she says sweetly. “Come in.”

I step inside.

“Delilah, who is at the door? Another room service? How many whiskey bottles did you order? Come here and serve Daddy!”

His voice.

I round the corner and find him Jackson my husband. Naked. Rose petals cover the floor, candles flicker in the dim light, and soft jazz plays in the background. The bed is unmade. His favorite whiskey sits half-finished by the stand. The entire room reeks of betrayal.

He sees me and stumbles, scrambling to cover himself.

“Emily, I — this is not —”

But I do not hear him. I am too busy watching Delilah close the door behind me, victorious. She wanted this. She planned this. Every detail, every lie, every betrayal it all led to this moment.

I stand frozen, my arms instinctively wrapping around my belly as another sharp kick hits me.

My babies are still fighting.

But right now, I feel like I am breaking.