The pregnancy

Isabella’s POV

The pregnancy test lay on the sink.

I told myself not to look yet. I told myself to breathe.

But I opened my eyes and the second line appeared anyway.

Positive.

For a moment, I couldn’t move, staring at the pregnancy test until my vision blurred. Slowly, I pressed my trembling hand to my stomach.

A baby. Another one.

Hope rose before I could stop it. My eyes burned. My throat tightened.

Please, I thought, not sure who I was praying to. Please let this one live.

The memory from one year ago flashed right in front of my eyes.

A year ago, this moment would have sent me running down the hallway, laughing, jumping into Mateo’s arms. But that was before.

Before Elena.

My beautiful, tiny Elena baby. She had only been on this earth for one month. I could still feel her tiny body against my chest. The way her fingers curled around mine like she trusted me completely.

I squeezed my eyes shut. My tears were already falling.

They said I failed her. Everyone did. Mateo’s mother had screamed at the funeral, calling me careless, claiming I had left her unattended, that I was a child playing house who didn't know how to be a mother.

And My husband Mateo? The man I had saved from the gutter, the man I had stood by while he climbed the top of the Santiago Group? He hadn’t defended me. He hadn't yelled back. He just looked at me with hollow eyes and silence that felt heavier than any accusation.

Now, I’m pregnant again. Is this a second chance? Or am I going to be a failure again?

My phone buzzed on the counter.

I ignored it. But it continued to buzz again. And again.

I reached for it without looking, wiping at my cheeks. The name on the screen made my hand freeze.

Valentina Martinez.

My step-aunt. She was a result of my father’s mid-life crisis five years ago when he married a woman barely older than his own daughter. We had never been close, but lately, her messages had been weird.

I opened the message.

We need to talk.

I stared at those three words until another message appeared beneath it.

A photo.

Mateo’s watch was unmistakable. The watch I saved for months to buy him. His hand rested on a woman’s thigh possessively.

My stomach dropped. Then the text followed.

I’m pregnant.

I lowered myself onto the closed toilet lid because my legs no longer trusted me. My fingers trembled as another message arrived.

Two months.

Mateo’s.

Something inside me cracked. I couldn't cry. I couldn't scream. It was just a quiet, devastating crack. My heart felt hollow.

Another message flashed on the screen:

I thought you should know. Before he lies to you. Again.

A laugh bubbled up in my chest hysterically. I pressed my hand over my mouth to smother it.

She was right. Again. Mateo was good at lying.

And I shouldn't be surprised. Because the mourning period for my marriage hadn’t started today. It had started exactly three months ago.

Three months ago, I believed we were just… damaged. So, I planned to surprise Mateo, to try and bridge the gap that had grown between us since Elena’s death.

Three months ago…

I wore his favorite dress at night. The black one he once said made me look dangerous. Then I went to The Vermillion to surprise him, imagining his smile when he saw me.

Once I got there, I bribed the guards to stay and stood behind a heavy curtain to surprise him. I was prepared to step into his private booth, when I heard his voice.

"She is just… she is difficult, Marcus." Mateo was saying. I heard the clink of ice against glass. "Since the baby, she is so distant, you know. And even before that, if I be honest. Isabella is old-fashioned. She is boring in bed. She looks at me like I’m a saint, not a man."

My hand clenched on the curtain. It wasn't the voice of the man who used to hold me while I cried. It was the voice of a stranger.

"You need to live a little, Mat." Marcus Allen’s voice replied. "You’re the head of the Santiago Group now. You have needs. Have you thought about what I told you? About the agency?"

"Scarlet Discretion?" Mateo asked.

"Top of the line." David Miller cut in. "Two to five grand a night. No strings, no names. Just professionals who know how to do the things your wife won’t."

"I don't know," Mateo hesitated. "I love her."

"Chill, Dude. You can love her and still have a life." Marcus said. "Mr. Miller is my contact. I can set you up tonight. If she never finds out, who gets hurt? You get to be happy. She gets to keep her 'perfect husband.' It’s a win-win."

I waited. I prayed to a God that Mateo would flip the table, that he would punch Marcus in the jaw for speaking about me that way.

"Alright.” Mateo said calmly. "Set it up. But it has to be discreet."

My heart froze. But I didn’t walk into the booth. I turned around and walked out into the biting winter wind. I walked for two hours without a coat, letting the cold seep into my bones until I was shivering so violently I couldn't stand.

I caught a fever that night. Mateo played the part of the perfect husband for six days. He brought me soup. He checked my temperature.

But on the seventh day, while I was still weak and burning up, his phone rang.

"I have to go in," He told me, adjusting his tie, not looking me in the eye. "Work emergency. A crisis at the port."

I knew it wasn't the port. It was Scarlet Discretion. I begged him not to go. But he kissed my forehead, said he would be back soon and left anyway.

He didn’t come back soon. I knew he wouldn't.

At some point, I realized my fever had broken. My skin felt clammy, my head clearer than it had been in days. I pushed myself upright.

I reached for my phone. No messages. No missed calls. The clock on the nightstand glowed 11:47 p.m.

I imagined him in some conference room, sleeves rolled up the way it used to be when he talked about building his future. I told myself not to be paranoid. I told myself I was sick and exhausted and imagining things.

Still, I opened his credit card app. I didn’t know why. I’d never checked it before.

The charge was there, timestamped less than an hour ago.

$3,200. SC Consulting.

I scrolled further.

$4,500. $3,200. $4,000. Every two, sometimes three times a month. Always at night. Always under the same vague description, coded as "Consulting Services.”

But I knew what it was.

"Top of the line." I remembered David Miller say that night. "Two to five grand a night. No strings, no names."

It was a call girl agency. The specific billing descriptor for Scarlet Discretion. A perfect little lie on a statement that no one would question. He wasn’t meeting clients. He was paying someone to sleep with him while I lay sick here.

My hands started to shake. I had to set the phone down before it slipped from my grip.

I stared at the ceiling again, breathing through the ache spreading across my chest. I didn’t cry. I waited.

At two in the morning, I got up and padded into the living room. I thought of Elena.

How I had stayed awake all night watching her breathe, terrified she would disappear if I closed my eyes.

I had trusted Mateo to watch over me the same way. That trust felt foolish now.

I sat on the couch until dawn. My mind drifted back through the years. Every sacrifice, every quiet way I had protected him when the world was cruel. I remembered standing between him and his father’s rage. I remembered skipping meals so he could eat. I remembered believing love meant enduring.

The entire day, I didn't even feel alive anymore. I didn't eat, didn’t drink. In the evening, I finally found the strength to pick up my phone and call Irene.

My best friend. She moved to Italy last year for her work. But she was still the only person I trusted not to turn her back on me. She answered on the second ring.

“Bella? What's up?” Her voice was sleepy. “Is everything okay?”

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.

“Bella?” She said again, concerned. “You’re scaring me.”

“Irene…” My voice cracked, and I hated myself for it. I pressed my knuckles to my lips, “I need you to listen. And I need you not to interrupt me.”

There was a pause. “Okay.”

“I was sick. Not anymore.” I said. “But Mateo left last night. He said it was work.”

She waited.

“I checked his card,” I continued,“There’s a charge. The kind he thinks I don’t recognize.”

Irene exhaled slowly. “Oh, Bella…”

“I waited for him,” I said. “All night. I kept thinking he’d come back and explain. I kept thinking I was being unfair.” A humorless laugh escaped me. “I’ve been doing that a lot lately.”

“That son of a bitch” she cursed in a low tone.

“I want to leave him,” I said. “But I can’t just… disappear. He won’t let me. His family won’t let me.”

Irene didn’t argue. She never did when it mattered.

“What do you want me to do?” she asked quietly.

“Six months from now.” I said, forcing myself to stay steady, “I need people to believe I was in an accident. Just… enough that they stop looking for me.”

I heard her gasp. “Bella, that’s…”

“I know,” I interrupted gently. “I know how it sounds. I’m not running away. I’m taking my life back.”

“You’re sure?” Irene asked. “Because once we do this, there’s no turning back.”

I closed my eyes and saw Elena’s face. Then I saw Mateo walking out the door. And I saw myself waiting.

“Yes.” I said, gritting my teeth. “I’m sure.”

Another long silence passed by.

Then Irene said, “Okay. Think it’s done."

Tears finally slipped free, trailing down my cheeks.

“Thank you.” I whispered.

“Just remember, you got me.” she said. “Whenever you need.”

That was the day the Isabella who loved Mateo died.

Over the last ninety days, I did what Mateo did. Pretended to be a perfect wife while I packed away our shared memories. I didn't cry as I packed thousands of photos, love letters written on napkins, the diamond earrings he bought me for our first anniversary. I locked them all in a vault he didn't know existed. I kept the surprise for when I vanished.

I hired a PI. I watched the credit card statements. Consulting Services. That’s what they were labeled. Again and again. Two thousand five hundred dollars. Four thousand dollars. They appeared two, sometimes three times a month.

And now, Valentina.

Present Day…

I sat on the bathroom floor, the cold tile numbing my legs. The phone buzzed again.

Valentina: You thought Mateo loves you, dear? God, you are such a clueless wife. Look at me. I know everything. About his call girls. His all lies. That he hates you. And you know what? That's why he loves me. I heard, it’s your wedding anniversary next week. Let's see who he stays with. His boring wife. Or the future heir of the Santigo Group.

Suddenly, the caller ID changed. It wasn't a text this time. It was a call.

Hubby.

I stared at the name. He was probably calling from the office, or perhaps from Valentina’s bed.

I cleared my throat, forcing the tremor out of my voice. I swiped right. "Hello?"

"Bella?" Mateo’s voice sounded concerned. "Where are you? I’ve been calling the house line. You didn't answer."

"I’m in the bathroom, Mateo," I said, keeping my voice calm.

"Is everything okay? You sound... strange. Did something happen? Has someone upset you?"

I looked at the positive pregnancy test and then I looked at the Valentina’s texts on my screen.

The old Isabella would have cried. She would have screamed 'How could you?' She would have demanded a divorce right then and there.

But I wasn't the old Isabella. I was the woman who was going to die in a car crash in three months. I was the woman who was going to take him for everything he was worth before I disappeared into the smoke.

I watched myself in the mirror. I looked broken, too broken. "Mateo..." I uttered softly, “You're the one who upset me."

Then I hung up.