Losing My Voice, I Got Pregnant by the Wrong Man

{Alora’s POV}

I woke before the alarm.

The house was still dark, quiet in a way that felt heavy rather than peaceful. I lay there for a moment, listening. The air conditioner hummed softly and the clock on the bedside table ticked with steady patience.

Victor’s side of the bed was empty. The sheets were already cold.

That wasn’t unusual anymore. 

After I damaged my vocal cord in an accident five years ago and couldn’t speak any longer, Victor’s care for had started declining.

He had said he would learn sign language on my behalf but he never did so now, him not sleeping beside me constantly was one of the indicators of the stage we’ve gotten to.

Hence it was common now, but it didn’t mean I was comfortable with it. Daily I strived to make our relationship recover and get better.

I pushed myself upright now and swung my legs over the side of the bed. My feet touched the floor, and I sat there longer than necessary, gathering myself before standing.

In the bathroom, the light felt too bright. I brushed my teeth, rinsed my mouth, and tied my hair back. When I lifted my head, my reflection stared back at me— calm, pale, and careful.

I touched my throat. My fingers rested there briefly, then dropped.

Some habits didn’t disappear, no matter how many years passed.

I moved quietly down the stairs and into the kitchen now. Morning routines had become my anchor. When everything else felt uncertain, repetition gave me control.

Coffee first. Victor liked it strong, no sugar, and so I measured the grounds carefully, poured the water slowly. Then eggs, cooked just enough. Toast next. And finally, Noah’s sandwich— ham and cheese, cut diagonally. He hated straight cuts.

The pan sizzled loudly in the quiet kitchen. I winced and turned the heat down.

By the time I finished, the table was set neatly. Plates aligned. Cups filled. I rang the small bell once. The sound was light, almost delicate.

Then I waited.

Footsteps came from upstairs a minute later. Victor entered the kitchen first, already looking at his phone. His dress shirt was crisp, his tie hanging loose around his neck.

“You woke me too early,” he said as he sat down.

I lifted my hands and signed slowly, carefully. 

>You asked me to.<

He didn’t look up.

I hesitated, then signed again, smaller. 

>You have a meeting.<

Still nothing.

I lowered my hands and poured coffee into his cup. He took a sip and frowned slightly, then picked up his phone again. I watched him scroll, his thumb moving quickly, his attention already elsewhere.

Noah came in next, dragging his backpack behind him. His hair stuck up at the back, and his eyes were still heavy with sleep.

“Morning,” I mouthed automatically, even though I knew he wouldn’t hear it.

He climbed onto his chair and took a bite of his sandwich. His face twisted.

“This tastes weird,” he commented.

Before I could react, he pushed the plate away. It slid across the table and fell to the floor. It clanked on the floor and then the dog darted in and grabbed it.

My chest tightened, but I didn’t react angrily or showed my hurt. I loved him, not because he was my son but also because we shared a significant memory. 

The night of my accident was the same night I gave birth to him. Due to my blood loss that night and the accident’s impact, labor was induced and medically advised so I begged the doctor to save my baby first. Even if I wouldn’t make it, I had wanted my baby to come into the world.

Eventually, Noah was delivered while I thankfully didn’t die, but went unconscious due to blood loss. 

But before I did, I had seen a beautiful baby boy with a faint crescent birthmark on his leg. 

Now, Noah was grown, seemingly shedding off the crescent birthmark, or maybe I had seen wrongly. But he was still a beauty and I was going to ensure the same morally.

I signed quickly now, my movements sharp. 

>Noah. Food shouldn’t be wasted.<

He didn’t look at my hands. He just shrugged.

Victor sighed. “Just make him something else.”

I stared at him.

He finally glanced up, irritation flickering across his face. “What?”

I signed again, slower this time. >He needs to eat what he has.<

Victor waved a frustrated hand. “You know what? Don’t bother. He’s already late.”

Late.

Everything was always late, always urgent— except me.

The front door opened now and light poured in 

“Good morning!” Anna’s voice floated in before she appeared.

She stepped into the kitchen without hesitation, already slipping off her heels. Her hair was smooth and her blouse perfectly pressed.

“Hi, Alora.” She greeted and I gave a small smile. 

Victor stood immediately. He loosened his tie and handed it to her without thinking.

“Fix this,” he said.

She smiled and stepped closer, her fingers moving easily at his collar. “You rush every morning,” she said lightly while I stood, checking if her comfort level around Victor was strange or if I was just overthinking it. But then I was distracted. 

Noah slid off his chair and ran straight to Anna now, wrapping his arms around her legs.

“Auntie Anna,” he said. “Did you bring cake?”

She laughed. “Of course, darling.”

I stood at the table, my hands resting against the edge, watching them fit together like this was normal.

Anna glanced at me then and tilted her head. “Oh— Victor needs that contract tonight,” she said. “The one from his desk.”

I blinked in a what-contract-are-you-referring-to type of way. 

She knew before I did.

Victor nodded. “She’ll bring it later. I don’t want things getting mixed up.”

I signed slowly. >Which contract?<

Anna smiled again. “The blue folder. Top drawer.”

Victor didn’t look at me. “You heard her.”

I did, but how did she—

Noah tugged on Anna’s hand now. “I want to go with you.”

With that, Anna looked at Victor.. and he nodded. “That’s fine.”

I knocked my knuckles against the table as a gesture, the sound sharp.

Noah looked at me briefly. “I don’t want you to take me,” he said to me with a frown and the words landed harder than I expected.

I reached for his backpack, signing quickly. >I can take you. I always take you.<

He stepped back, shaking his head. “Anna promised cake. I want her.”

Anna rested a hand on his shoulder. “Alright. I’ll take you,” she said, her voice gentle, and then she raised her gaze to me. 

“You should rest today, Alora. I’ll take care of him.” She told me.

But—

They left together.

I couldn’t speak, so they couldn’t hear my protest. 

Victor followed, already on his phone, and then the door closed.

Silence filled the house.

I stood there, unmoving, until the quiet felt too loud. Then I bent down, picked up the fallen plate, and carried it to the sink. I rinsed it, dried it, and placed it back in the cabinet.

Everything had its place.

I moved through the house slowly now, straightening cushions, folding the blanket on the couch. In Victor’s study, I paused by his desk. Papers were spread across it— contracts, notes, printed emails.

I hesitated, then opened the top drawer. The blue folder sat exactly where Anna had said it would.

My phone buzzed then.

“Check for the contract and bring it tonight,” Victor texted.

I typed back. “What time?”

No reply.

A moment later, another message appeared. An unfamiliar address. A hotel.

I stared at the screen, unease curling in my stomach. Victor rarely asked me to go anywhere anymore. When he did, it was always brief; transactional, and so I wondered why this was different.

By evening, I told myself I was overthinking.

I got into my car and drove to the address, not wanting to be late. The hotel lobby smelled faintly of flowers and polish. Everything gleamed and the front desk clerk handed me a key card without asking questions.

After follow-ups, I followed the hallway signs, my steps slowing as I finally reached the room number on the address Victor sent me.

I knocked. The door opened… but the man standing there was not my husband.

He was older, heavyset, his eyes assessing me with sharp interest. His smile spread in a way that made my skin crawl.

“You’re right on time,” he said and something cold slid down my spine.

I knew him.

Not personally— but by reputation. By whispers. By warnings passed quietly between women.

Mr. Damien.

A man whose name never appeared in headlines, only in hushed conversations. A man linked to deals that ended badly. To women who disappeared. To news that leaves you in horror. 

He looked at me like I was expected.

Like I was late.

And in that moment, standing in a silent hotel hallway with my husband’s useless folder clutched in my hands, I understood something that made my blood run cold.

This wasn’t a mistake.

This was a well-planned and intended incident.