Carrying a strangers child

“Who the fuck did you go and get pregnant for?” Ethan’s yelling brought me back to my senses. There was no way this baby wasn’t Ethan’s.

I had been nothing but loyal in that marriage — so what was he talking about?

“Honey, I don't understand why you have any doubts about this. Of course the baby is yours. I would never cheat on you...” he cut me off, while springing up from the bed and coming closer to where I was standing. He looked like a monster ready to pounce on his prey. I stepped back in an attempt to escape his grasp, but he grabbed both my shoulders, squeezing them as tightly as he could. It hurt like crazy.

“Ethan, please stop, you're hurting me!” I begged, but he only squeezed harder.

“How dare you try to push another man's child on me? Don't you have an ounce of shame in you?!” he snarled, glaring down at me.

“Ethan, what are you talking about? I would never...” he cut me short again.

“Really?! You would never cheat on me?! You've been nothing but loyal?! Then what were you doing at Paradise three weeks ago on Friday from 12 a.m. to 5 a.m.?!” he questioned, looking like he was sure about what he was saying.

“What... what are you...” I was getting confused at this point. I do remember waking up at a strange hotel three weeks ago, but I don't remember doing anything with anyone. I mean, I did feel weird after waking up, but I just thought Sophie didn't want me to go home drunk, so she lodged me in a hotel to sober up after we left the club. Does that mean I'm carrying a stranger's child?!

I should have called Sophie. My hands shook as the thought hit me — she would have known.

What have I done?

“What? Cat got your tongue?! You don't remember going into the Paradise Hotel on a certain Friday three weeks ago?!” he asked again. I was clearly in a state of panic now. My stomach twisted. The room blurred as my knees gave way. I couldn’t breathe.

“Ethan... this must be a misunderstanding. I went there with Sophie...” He let go of my shoulder and said,

“I knew you'd do this...” He reached for the shelf. He pulled out a stack of photos — me, head down, stepping into the hotel beside a man in Ethan’s custom leather jacket, the one with his initials stitched on the sleeve.

The timestamp glared from the corner — Friday, 1:17 a.m. — the night Ethan was in Dubai.

Everything went white.

I couldn’t breathe — couldn’t think. Memory folded over itself; flashes of the hotel, the club, Sophie’s hand on my elbow.

“So now what do you have to say for yourself?” he said while throwing the pictures in my face and walking back to the bedside, away from me.

No, no—please tell me this isn't true. Someone tell me this isn't true.

“Ethan, please let me explain...” I pleaded while trying to come close to him.

“Don't even try to come close to me, you disgusting woman... I can't believe I've been married to a cheater for four good years,” he spat with a look of disgust on his face. “I don't even think I can spend another minute with you.” He grabbed his car keys and stormed out, swearing under his breath.

I ran after him to stop him from leaving, but he wouldn't even look at me.

Oh no—what have I done? This has to be a joke. How did this happen? I don't even know who that man is.

I called Sophie — voicemail. Again.

The silence on the line was louder than Ethan’s shouting.

I sat there on the floor of the living room not knowing what to do next. So this is it? This is how my marriage ends?

The face of my phone lit up because I received a notification. It was an email from the hospital. The test results were out.

While opening the message—if God, or whatever deity ruled over us, did exist—I kept praying and pleading that the pregnancy would be my husband's. Maybe they didn't hear me, or they didn't exist, because they hadn't answered me.

“Congratulations, Mrs. Samantha Simpson, you are three weeks pregnant.” That was the only thing I could bring myself to read.

Tears blurred the screen. I was carrying a strangers child.

---

Across the city under a different kind of light, in a dimly lit office, another man was already one step ahead.

The office smelled faintly of burnt tobacco and expensive cologne — sharp, deliberate, like him.

“Did you find her?!” a strong male voice echoed through the empty office where only he and his assistant were standing.

“Her name’s Samantha Simpson. Twenty-four. Dropped out of med school.”

“Why?”

“Personal reasons. Married soon after.”

“Married?” He flicked ash from his cigarette onto the marble floor. “To who?”

“Ethan Simpson. Four years. No children.”

“Huh.” He leaned back, gold watch flashing in the dim light. “Then what the hell was she doing in my bed?”

...His assistant couldn't say anything since he didn't know the answer to that.

“Did you say she didn't have a child?” he asked again, seeking confirmation, his gold watch caught the light, a Rolex glinting cold and precise as his tone.

“Yes sir.”

He laughed once, low and humorless, before crushing the cigarette into the desk.

“Maybe her husband isn’t man enough.” he muttered.

“But what if she's just trying to look for a baby? What if she gets pregnant and gives my child to her useless husband?” he questioned while springing up from his seat.

“Umm, sir... I—”

“Find her again. Check the hospitals.” He didn’t look up. If she’s carrying my child and hands it to another man,” he said, voice cold as ice, “I’ll make sure she pays.”

The words landed like a sentence.