My Husband Plotted To Murder Me In Childbirth — He Forgot Who My Father Was
Part 1
Footsteps echoed against the cold marble floors of the sprawling estate, heavy with a secret that would soon shatter my entire world.
Six weeks into carrying the future heir, I pressed my ear against my husband’s study door, only to hear the man I loved whisper five fatal words.
I had always believed my life was a beautifully orchestrated fairy tale.
As the only daughter of a ruthlessly successful American railway magnate, I possessed immense wealth.
Yet, in the rigid high society of 1892, new money could buy you elegant ball gowns, but it could not buy you a respected pedigree.
That was until Greg Pendelton stepped into my life.
Greg was everything a romantic novel promised.
He was strikingly handsome, with a sharp jawline and an effortless charm that easily disarmed anyone he met.
When he proposed in the lush gardens, dropping to one knee, I felt I had secured true love.
Our grand wedding was the spectacular event of the decade.
For the first year of our marriage, we resided at his sprawling manor in the remote, wind-swept countryside.
Greg was fiercely protective, showering me with expensive jewels and unwavering attention.
I was blinded by pure adoration.
I never questioned why he slowly isolated me from my former friends.
I did not even question why my younger brother Tyler was subtly discouraged from visiting us.
I foolishly believed it was simply the passionate exclusivity of a newlywed husband.
Then came the crisp autumn morning when everything rapidly shifted.
I had been feeling unusually fatigued, accompanied by a wave of nausea that refused to pass.
Doctor Hughes, the discreet family physician, had been urgently summoned to my private chambers.
After a brief examination, the old doctor smiled warmly and patted my hand.
I was exactly six weeks pregnant.
A massive surge of overwhelming joy consumed my entire being.
An heir.
A child born of the profound love I shared with Greg.
I spent the entire afternoon pacing my opulent bedroom, imagining my husband’s ecstatic reaction.
I decided I would tell him that very evening during a private celebration.
As dusk settled over the sprawling estate, I eagerly made my way down the grand staircase.
I carried a silver tray with two glasses of fine cognac, intending to surprise Greg in his private study.
The thick velvet carpets completely absorbed the sound of my approaching footsteps.
As I neared the heavy oak door, I noticed it was left slightly ajar.
A sliver of warm light spilled onto the hallway floor, accompanied by the low murmuring sound of voices.
I paused, recognizing the sharp, reedy voice of Mister Fletcher, my husband’s notoriously ruthless solicitor.
Unwilling to interrupt a dull financial meeting, I prepared to turn back.
But then Greg’s voice floated through the crack in the heavy door.
His tone was not the warm, melodic baritone he always reserved for me.
It was cold, calculating, and laced with an icy detachment that froze me in my tracks.
“The American trust is ironclad, my lord,” Mister Fletcher was saying, his voice tight with anxiety.
“If she were to pass away without bearing a child, every penny of her father’s fortune reverts back to his estate.”
“The debts cannot be satisfied with empty coffers, and we are weeks away from total ruin.”
“She is pregnant, Fletcher,” Greg replied smoothly.
The distinct sound of a match striking echoed in the quiet room.
“Doctor Hughes confirmed it to me in the library not an hour ago.”
“We will have our required heir.”
My heart fluttered with a confusing mix of terrifying emotions.
Greg already knew about the baby.
Why had he not rushed to my side to celebrate?
Why was he discussing our unborn child in the same breath as crippling debts?
Fletcher then nervously asked what would happen to the mother.
“Once the child is born, her immense fortune officially transfers to your estate to be managed by you.”
“But as long as she lives, she retains the absolute right to audit the accounts.”
“She is her father’s daughter, and she will certainly notice the missing funds.”
There was a long, agonizing silence.
I pressed my shaking hand against the cold wall, my breath completely trapped in my tight throat.
The silver tray in my hands suddenly felt impossibly heavy.
Then my husband spoke five words that severed my heart from my soul.
“Ensure she dies in labor.”
I completely stopped breathing as the world spun violently on its axis.
“Doctor Hughes is a loyal man,” Greg continued, his tone as casual as if he were discussing the weather.
“Childbirth is a perilous endeavor for any woman, especially a fragile American.”
“A tragic hemorrhage or sudden fever is a common enough tragedy.”
“The society papers will weep for my terrible loss, I will play the grieving widower, and the money will be secured.”
The silver tray began to rattle violently against the crystal glasses.
Trembling uncontrollably, I carefully backed away from the door, terrified that the slightest noise would alert the monster plotting my murder just feet away.
I turned and fled down the dimly lit corridor.
The joyous news of my pregnancy had instantly twisted into a horrifying death sentence.
Back in the safety of my chambers, I collapsed onto the silk sheets, gasping for air.
The man I loved, the man whose ring I wore, was plotting to brutally kill me.
My fairy tale was nothing more than a masterfully constructed gilded cage.
I realized with sickening clarity why Greg had pursued me so aggressively.
His sprawling estate was entirely bankrupt, rotting beneath its grand facade.
I was never his beloved bride.
I was merely a financial transaction, a walking bank vault that he intended to crack open with my death.
Over the next few weeks, I lived a terrifying double life.
By day, I played the radiant, blissfully ignorant expectant mother.
By night, I transformed into a ghost, silently gathering undeniable proof of his crimes.
I successfully slipped a coded letter past his guards, begging my brother for heavily armed help.
I just had to survive the long months living with my executioner.
But the terrifying climax of my waking nightmare began early on a dark Tuesday evening amidst a roaring tempest.
I had retired to my opulent chambers, experiencing genuine tight pains in my lower back.
As I lay helplessly upon the heavy silk pillows, the massive oak door swung open with an ominous creak.
Greg confidently entered, followed closely by the sinister Doctor Hughes.
The trembling doctor carried a worn leather bag, and a stern maid loomed darkly in the shadowy hallway.
She quickly locked the heavy brass deadbolt from the outside, securely trapping the three of us inside the dimly lit, suffocating room.
