Chapter 3

Chloe didn't just stay; she took over. She moved her things into the guest room, but her presence seeped into every corner of the house. My sanctuary, the place I had designed and decorated with love, became enemy territory.

The first thing to go was my food. I came downstairs one morning, craving the ginger tea and crackers that were the only things that soothed my morning sickness. They were gone. In their place on the counter was a carton of organic milk and a box of prenatal vitamins I'd never seen before.

Chloe was at the table, scrolling on her phone.

"Looking for something?" she asked without looking up.

"My tea. And the crackers."

She finally lifted her head, a small, pitying smile on her face. "Oh, that. I threw it out. The doctor said you need more calcium and folic acid. Mark wants me to make sure you're on a proper diet. For the baby's health."

Every sentence was a carefully crafted jab. The doctor. Mark wants. The baby's health. She was positioning herself as the guardian of the pregnancy, and I was just the faulty vessel.

It was psychological warfare, waged with small, daily cruelties. I'm allergic to shrimp, a fact Mark knew better than anyone. One evening, Chloe prepared a beautiful shrimp scampi for dinner. When I refused to eat it, pointing out my allergy, she feigned innocence.

"Oh, I had no idea! Mark never mentioned it," she said, her eyes wide. "You should have some, it's packed with protein. Good for development."

Mark, playing the role of peacemaker, just sighed. "Sarah, don't be difficult. Just eat the pasta part."

I spent the night vomiting, my throat tight and itchy. Chloe stood in the bathroom doorway, watching me with a look of detached concern. "You seem to be having a very difficult pregnancy," she commented, as if observing a science experiment.

My body was betraying me. The constant nausea, the fatigue, the swelling in my ankles-it all left me feeling weak and powerless. I wanted to fight, to scream, to throw her out of my house, but I barely had the energy to get out of bed. I was trapped not just by her and Mark, but by the very pregnancy that was supposed to be my greatest joy.

Mark would come home from work and the charade would begin. He' d kiss my forehead, his lips cool and brief. He' d bring me a glass of water or fluff my pillows.

"How are my two favorite people doing?" he'd ask, placing a hand on my stomach. His touch felt like a brand, a claim of ownership.

I would watch him, trying to find a flicker of the man I married. One evening, he came into the bedroom while I was resting. He had a bottle of lavender oil.

"Your ankles are swollen," he said softly. "Let me."

He sat on the edge of the bed and began to gently massage my feet. His touch was firm and confident. For a crazy, desperate moment, it felt like the old days. My eyes welled up with tears.

"See?" he murmured. "Everything's going to be okay. We're going to be a family."

But then I saw it. Over his shoulder, reflected in the dark glass of the bedroom window, I could see the living room downstairs. Chloe was on the sofa, bathed in the warm glow of a lamp, reading a book. She looked completely at home. Mark finished with my feet, kissed my cheek, and whispered, "Get some rest."

He went downstairs. I listened to his footsteps, then the low murmur of their voices. A moment later, I heard Chloe laugh, a rich, happy sound.

The pain was no longer sharp. It was a dull, constant ache, like a slow poison spreading through my veins. I was a ghost in my own life, watching my husband build a new family with another woman, right in front of my eyes. He was playing the part of the doting husband to me, and the loving partner to her, and I was the only one who knew the truth.

The realization was sickening. He wasn't just cheating on me. He was replacing me.

Later that night, as I lay in bed, feigning sleep, my phone lit up with a message. It was from Chloe. I knew it was her, even though she used another burner number.

"He's so happy, you know. He told me tonight that he can't wait for the baby to be born. He's already picked out a name. A family name."

My blood ran cold.

The next message was the final blow.

"He's also meeting with his lawyers tomorrow. To update his will. To make sure his 'heir' is protected, no matter what. And to start the paperwork. He's going to file for divorce the day after the baby is born. He wants a clean break. He wants to start his 'real' family."

The screen went dark, but the words were burned into my mind. He wasn't just going to take the baby. He was going to erase me completely.