Knocked Up by the Callboy

I gripped Marcus’s hand tightly as the doctor delivered the news I had been dreading. “I’m sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Hale. This cycle was unsuccessful. There is still no pregnancy.”

The elegant fertility clinic suddenly felt suffocating. I had walked in with so much hope, imagining we might finally hear the words we had been praying for after years of trying. Instead, I sat there frozen, blinking back the tears that stung my eyes.

Marcus pulled his hand away first. “Thank you, doctor,” he said in a flat tone, already standing up. No comforting touch. No kind words. Just that cold, efficient voice he used with everyone these days.

I followed him out of the clinic in silence. We stepped into the elevator and then into the car without speaking. The drive back to our penthouse was painfully quiet. The beautiful lights of the city passed by the windows, but I couldn’t enjoy them. I kept glancing at Marcus. His jaw was clenched tight, and his fingers tapped restlessly on the steering wheel.

“Say something,” I whispered.

He didn’t even look at me. “What do you want me to say, Lilah? We’ve been through this too many times.”

His words hurt. I turned my face to the window and pressed my forehead against the cool glass. Eight years of marriage. Three rounds of treatments. So many sacrifices I had made for his political career. And now this growing distance between us felt impossible to ignore.

When we finally entered our luxurious penthouse, the heavy door clicked shut behind us. The place looked as perfect as always — high ceilings, gleaming marble floors, and large windows offering a stunning view of the city. But tonight it felt cold and empty. I kicked off my heels and walked toward the kitchen, hoping a glass of water might help me feel normal again.

That’s when Marcus exploded.

“This is getting ridiculous, Lilah!” he shouted, slamming his keys onto the counter.

I froze, the glass nearly slipping from my hand. “Marcus, please…”

“No. Listen to me.” His voice grew louder, filled with years of frustration. “Do you have any idea how this looks? My family keeps pressuring me about an heir. The party wants the perfect family image for my Senate campaign. I need a child. And you can’t even give me that.”

Tears rolled down my cheeks before I could stop them. I wiped them away quickly. “You think this is easy for me? I’ve done everything — the injections, the hormones that made me sick, the endless tests. I’ve put my whole life on hold for you. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

Marcus laughed bitterly as he paced the living room. “It means nothing if you can’t do the one thing that actually matters. I married you because I thought you would be the perfect wife. Supportive. Graceful. Able to give me the family I need. But here we are. Still failing.”

His words cut deep. My chest ached. “I’m not a failure, Marcus. This is breaking me too. Every negative result feels like I’m failing both of us.”

He stopped pacing and stared at me with cold eyes. “Then perhaps we need to change the rules. I don’t want to continue this traditional marriage anymore.”

My stomach dropped. “What are you saying?”

“I’m proposing an open marriage arrangement,” he said, crossing his arms. “I will see other women. Discreetly. Women who can give me a child. You will remain my public wife — attend events, smile for the cameras, and play the perfect role. Privately, I will handle my needs elsewhere.”

I stared at him in shock. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m completely serious. This is the practical solution. My image stays protected. I get what I need. And you keep this lifestyle.”

Horror washed over me. I stepped back until I hit the sofa. “No. I will never agree to that. I’d rather divorce you than live as a trophy while you sleep with other women.”

Marcus’s face hardened. He moved closer, his voice low and threatening. “Divorce? Think very carefully, Lilah. Who do you think has been paying for your mother’s medical care? The private hospital, the specialists, the treatments. If you push me, I can stop everything tomorrow. I can have her life support disconnected.”

My knees weakened. My mother had been in a coma for nearly two years. I visited her every week, holding her hand and talking to her even when she couldn’t respond. The thought of losing her terrified me.

“You wouldn’t dare,” I whispered.

“I would,” he replied coldly. “You have one week. One week to accept the arrangement and sign the papers. Or your mother pays the price for your stubbornness.”

He grabbed his jacket and walked toward his study without another word. “Think about it,” he said over his shoulder. “I’m doing this for our future.”

I sank onto the sofa, my legs shaking. The beautiful penthouse that once felt like a dream now felt like a prison. All the luxury around me meant nothing. I had given up so much for this man, believing he loved me. Now I saw the painful truth.

Tears streamed down my face as I wrapped my arms around myself. The pain was overwhelming. The man I once loved now viewed me as a problem — a disappointment he wanted to work around.

I stayed there for hours as the city lights twinkled outside. Alone. Completely trapped with no easy way out.

Eventually, I stood up and walked to the large window. I pressed my hand against the glass and stared at my faint reflection. The woman looking back seemed broken and lost.

“I can’t do this,” I whispered. “I won’t survive this.”

But even as I said the words, the heavy weight of my mother’s situation pressed down on me. I was trapped. Painfully and completely trapped.