My Estranged Husband Demanded A Divorce—Then Discovered My Six-Month Secret
Part 1
The rain lashed against the warped window pane of the drawing room.
The rolling hills dissolved into a wash of gray sludge outside.
I stared instead at the thick parchment resting on the mahogany desk.
The heavy wax seal was fractured straight down the middle.
Dan was arriving today to sign the papers.
He was coming to sever the final rotting thread holding us together.
My hands shook violently.
It wasn’t from heartbreak.
It was from the sudden vicious kick beneath my ribs.
I was six months gone.
He had absolutely no idea.
The fire in the hearth was struggling.
It sputtered against the damp soot that clogged the chimney.
I adjusted my posture in the wingback chair.
I stifled a grimace as my lower back throbbed with a dull rhythmic ache.
It had become my constant companion since November.
I shifted my weight carefully.
I felt the heavy pull of my belly beneath the voluminous layers of black wool.
I was in mourning for my uncle.
The excessive yardage of proper bereavement swallowed my altered silhouette.
It hid the swelling truth of my condition from the sparse staff.
A draft swept through the floorboards.
I pulled my woolen shawl tighter around my shoulders.
My ankles were swollen.
They pressed painfully against the stiff leather of my boots.
This wasn’t how a wife prepared to face her estranged husband.
There was only exhaustion and the metallic taste of anxiety in my mouth.
The distant rhythmic crunch of gravel reached my ears.
My breath hitched in my throat.
I pressed a hand flat against my abdomen.
I silently pleaded for the life churning inside me to just be still.
The heavy oak door downstairs slammed shut with a sickening thud.
Craig announced his arrival.
The sharp clipped baritone made the fine hairs on my arms stand up.
He didn’t walk like a man burdened by the collapse of a marriage.
His footsteps sounded like a ruthless landlord coming for his due.
He stepped into the room.
He wore a dark riding coat.
His dark hair was plastered against his forehead.
He looked incredibly tired.
His gaze swept the peeling wallpaper and the smoking hearth.
He was judging my exile.
I kept my hands folded over my lap.
They were hidden beneath the cascading fringe of my shawl.
He smoothly produced a silver flask from inside his coat.
He took a short sharp pull without offering me any.
He slapped the metal flask down right next to the divorce papers.
His solicitors had drawn it up exactly as we discussed.
The settlement was generous.
The manor was mine along with the London townhouse.
I stared at the thick stack of paper.
The finality of it felt like a physical blow.
I had begged for this when I found out about his trip to Paris.
He took that trip while I was recovering from my third miscarriage.
He took it without me.
I told him the money was more than adequate.
My voice sounded thin even to my own ears.
He muttered that he just wanted this done.
He unstoppered the inkwell.
The sharp scent of iron gall filled the space between us.
He wanted to move on.
I cynically suggested he wanted to move on to an heir.
His hand froze completely.
A muscle ticked violently in his jaw.
He warned me not to play the victim today.
He claimed we built a graveyard out of a marriage.
He wanted to just bury it and walk away.
I swallowed hard.
He was entirely right.
It was a graveyard.
I had buried three tiny unnamed ghosts in the family plot.
And now my body had finally decided to hold on.
I felt another sharp roll in my abdomen.
I dug my fingernails into my palms.
I quietly asked him to pass me the pen.
He forced me to reach for it.
Signing the paper meant compromising the careful fortress of wool.
His tone was clipped and impatient.
He told me it was just ink.
I grabbed the arms of the chair.
I pushed myself forward.
The sudden movement sent a spike of searing pain through my round ligaments.
I gasped loudly.
I slumped back into the upholstery.
My hand flew instinctively to my side.
He frowned with the pen still hovering over the desk.
He asked what was wrong with me.
I panted lightly while trying to breathe through the sudden cramp.
I hissed defensively that I was perfectly fine.
I demanded the damn pen.
He placed it on the parchment and crossed his arms over his chest.
I leaned forward again much slower this time.
I reached out with trembling fingers.
They closed around the cold silver barrel of the pen.
I dipped the pen into the inkwell.
I pressed the nib to the paper.
A sharp violent spasm ripped through my abdomen.
It was a vicious contraction.
It stole the breath entirely from my lungs.
I dropped the pen.
It splattered ink across the parchment.
I doubled over.
I clutched my stomach with both hands.
The shawl slipped completely from my shoulders.
It pooled on the floor.
He stood up quickly.
I gasped out for him to stop.
I forced myself to sit up.
He stopped a few feet from me.
Without the thick draping coverage of the shawl the truth was obvious.
The solid undeniable mound of my abdomen pressed taut against the black wool.
He stood entirely still.
He stared at my swollen stomach, the color draining from his face, and demanded to know why I was hiding his heir.
