He Chose Her Over Our Dead Child

"Mrs. Ortega?"

Deidre jumped. Her hands, which had been tightly woven together in her lap, jerked apart. She pressed her palms flat against the cool leather of the sofa, trying to stop the trembling.

Dr. Frye stood in the doorway of his Upper East Side clinic. He didn't meet her eyes. He walked over to his mahogany desk, the heavy door clicking shut behind him, and sat down. He placed two thick manila folders on the blotter and pushed them toward her.

"Your results are back," he said. His voice was flat. Dull to the point of being somewhat frightening.

Deidre reached for the first folder. Her fingers were numb. She opened it and stared at the grainy black-and-white image paper-clipped to the top. A tiny blob in a sea of static.

"You're six weeks pregnant," Dr. Frye said.

A rush of hot air filled Deidre's lungs. Six weeks. A baby. After all the negative tests, after all the months of disappointment, there was finally a heartbeat inside her. The corners of her mouth lifted. She looked up at the doctor, expecting to see a matching smile.

Dr. Frye was staring at the second folder. His jaw was tight.

"However," he said, flipping the second folder open, "your echocardiogram came back with severe abnormalities."

Deidre's smile froze. "Abnormalities?"

"You have severe dilated cardiomyopathy." Dr. Frye tapped a graph that looked like a jagged mountain range. "Your heart muscle is enlarged and severely weakened. Your ejection fraction is critically low. Your heart is failing, Deidre."

A high-pitched ringing started in Deidre's ears. She shook her head. "No. That's impossible. I just had a little shortness of breath. It's just the pregnancy-"

"It's not the pregnancy." Dr. Frye's voice was gentle but unyielding. He pointed to the numbers on the page. "Your BNP levels are through the roof. Your heart cannot pump efficiently. The physical stress of pregnancy increases blood volume by fifty percent. Your heart will not survive that load."

Deidre stared at the graph. The lines blurred. "What are you saying?"

"I am strongly advising you to terminate the pregnancy." Dr. Frye leaned forward, his eyes finally meeting hers, filled with pity. "If you carry this child to term, the strain will likely cause catastrophic heart failure. You will die."

Deidre's hands flew to her stomach. She covered the flat plane of her belly protectively, her fingernails digging into the fabric of her silk blouse. "No. There has to be another way. Medication? Surgery?"

"None that are safe during the first trimester." Dr. Frye sighed. "I know this is devastating. But you have to think about your own life."

The ringing in her ears grew louder. Her vision tunneled. She was going to be sick. She forced herself to breathe in through her nose, tasting the sterile clinic air. She would not cry. She would not fall apart here.

A violent vibration shattered the silence of the room. Deidre jumped again, her hand flying to her Hermes bag. She pulled out her phone, the screen glaringly bright in the dim office.

It was a multimedia message from an unknown number. No text. Just a loading image. The little spinning wheel seemed to take forever, stretching her nerves to the breaking point.

The image finally loaded.

Deidre's breath hitched. It was a photo taken from a distance, slightly grainy but unmistakably clear. A man in a dark cashmere coat was helping a woman out of a black SUV. The woman wore a fitted maternity dress, her belly round and prominent. The man's hand was resting on the small of her back, guiding her toward the entrance of a VIP maternity hospital.

Deidre's pupils shrank to pinpoints. She recognized that profile anywhere. The sharp jawline, the perfectly styled dark hair. It was her husband, Danial Ortega.

And the woman he was touching so intimately, the woman carrying that swollen belly, was Daria Guthrie. His cousin. His first love.

A second text popped up. Words only.

Looks like the sterile wife is the only one not having his kid. What a pathetic decoration.

Deidre's grip on the phone tightened until her knuckles turned bone-white. The plastic casing creaked under the pressure. Her stomach roiled, a wave of acid burning the back of her throat.

She stood up abruptly. The room tilted. Black spots danced in her vision, and she swayed on her feet, grabbing the edge of the desk to steady herself.

Dr. Frye shot out of his chair. "Deidre, sit down. Your blood pressure-"

"Don't touch me!" She slapped his hand away. Her voice was raw, stripped bare.

She snatched her bag off the floor, ignoring the concerned calls from the doctor. She stumbled toward the door, her heels catching on the thick rug. She yanked the door open and half-ran down the hallway, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

The Fifth Avenue wind hit her like a slap when she burst out of the clinic. It was freezing, the kind of cold that bit into your skin and turned your lungs to ice. Deidre didn't care. She stepped off the curb, her arm raised, shouting over the traffic noise.

A yellow taxi screeched to a halt. Deidre yanked the back door open and dove inside.

"Where to?" the driver asked, looking at her pale face in the rearview mirror.

Deidre rattled off the address from the hospital sign in the photo. The driver hesitated, taking in her shaking hands and wild eyes, but he stepped on the gas.

The cab's heater was blasting, pumping out dry, stuffy air. But Deidre couldn't stop shivering. Her whole body vibrated with a cold that had nothing to do with the weather outside. She leaned her head against the cold glass, watching the city blur past.

She thought about that morning. Danial standing by the door, adjusting his cufflinks. He hadn't even looked at her when he said goodbye. Just a curt "I have meetings" before the door clicked shut. He was going to see her. He was going to the hospital with her.

The taxi lurched to a stop in front of a discreet, modern building in Greenwich Village. Deidre threw a wad of cash at the driver and scrambled out.

The revolving glass doors whooshed as she entered the quiet, luxurious lobby. It smelled like fresh lilies and money. A receptionist in a pristine white uniform looked up, her smile professional and guarded.

"Can I help you?"

"I'm here to see someone," Deidre said, her voice breathless. "A patient."

"Do you have an appointment?" The receptionist's eyes narrowed slightly. "This is a private facility. We don't allow walk-ins."

Deidre opened her mouth to argue, to scream Danial's name, but a sudden, sharp cramp in her chest stole her breath. She gasped, clutching the edge of the reception counter. She couldn't cause a scene. If Danial saw her like this, weak and desperate, he would just look at her with that cold, pitying expression.

"No," Deidre forced out. "I don't have an appointment."

She backed away, retreating to a corner of the lobby. She slipped behind a large potted fern, the broad green leaves hiding her from the main desk. She pressed her back against the wall, her eyes locked on the long corridor that led to the VIP consultation rooms.

Every second felt like an hour. The silence of the lobby pressed down on her, broken only by the soft ticking of a clock. A dull ache began to bloom in her chest, radiating down her left arm. Her heart was struggling, skipping beats, racing, then thudding too hard. The physical reality of her disease was creeping up on her, feeding on her panic.

A door clicked open at the end of the hall.

Deidre stopped breathing.

Danial stepped out. He looked immaculate, not a single dark hair out of place. In his hand, he held a soft, camel-colored cashmere coat. He turned slightly, holding the coat open.

Daria walked out, moving slowly, one hand resting on her large belly. She looked up at Danial through her eyelashes, a soft, vulnerable smile on her face.

Danial draped the coat over her shoulders with a tenderness that made Deidre's chest physically cave in. He pulled the lapels together, his fingers lingering on the fabric, adjusting it perfectly around her neck. It was a gesture of intimacy, of care. It was the kind of touch Deidre hadn't felt from him in years.

Daria leaned into his chest, tilting her head back to say something. Danial smiled. It was a real smile, warm and unguarded, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He looked at Daria with a depth of affection that Deidre had only ever dreamed of receiving.

Deidre's nails dug into her palms so hard she felt the skin break. The physical pain was nothing compared to the agonizing tear in her chest. It felt like a physical hand had reached inside her ribcage and ripped her heart to shreds.

Danial reached out, his large hand covering Daria's swollen belly. He rubbed it gently, then leaned down, pressing his ear to her stomach, listening. A soft, genuine laugh escaped him. He looked like a proud father.

A violent spasm clenched Deidre's stomach. The nausea hit her like a tidal wave. The morning sickness, combined with the sheer, visceral disgust of watching her husband fawn over another woman's child, was too much. She slapped a hand over her mouth, retching silently, and took a hasty step backward.

Her stiletto heel caught on the metal base of a trash can.

Clang.

The sound echoed through the silent lobby like a gunshot.

Danial's head snapped up. His smile vanished instantly. His eyes, sharp and predatory, locked onto the corner where the sound had come from. He straightened up, his body tensing, his gaze piercing through the leaves of the fern.

Deidre froze. She pressed her back flat against the wall, holding her breath until her lungs burned. Her heart was beating so fast and so hard she was sure he could hear it. She was trapped, a deer in the headlights, waiting for the executioner to pull the trigger.

Danial's eyes stayed on the potted fern for two agonizing seconds. His jaw tightened, her body coiled like a spring ready to snap.

"Danial," Daria whimpered. She suddenly doubled over, her hands clutching her stomach. "Ow. It hurts."

Danial's focus shattered. He whipped his head back to her, his expression instantly shifting from suspicion to panic. He crouched down, his hands hovering over her belly. "What's wrong? Is it the baby? Should I get the doctor?"

Daria shook her head, biting her lip. "No, it's just a cramp. The baby is kicking too hard. I just need to sit down."

Deidre let out a shaky, silent breath. Cold sweat drenched her back, making her silk shirt cling to her skin like a second, freezing layer. She watched as Danial guided Daria to a plush sofa right across the lobby, just around the corner from where Deidre was hiding. If he turned his head even slightly, he would see her shoes.

Deidre tried to move. She tried to lift her feet and sneak toward the exit. But her legs felt like they were filled with wet cement. The adrenaline crash, combined with her failing heart, left her weak and trembling. She was trapped, forced to listen from the shadows like a ghost in her own life.

Daria leaned her head against Danial's shoulder, her voice a sweet, sticky purr. "I'm so tired, Danial. I just want this baby to be safe. I want to know he'll be taken care of."

"He will be," Danial said, his voice low and soothing. "I've already taken care of it. I had the lawyers set up an irrevocable trust fund in the Cayman Islands. Everything will be in his name. He'll want for nothing."

Deidre's heart skipped a beat, then crashed against her ribs. A trust fund. An irrevocable trust in the Caymans. That was something he had never even offered for their unborn daughter, Lily. He had never once spoken of trust funds or futures for the baby they had so desperately wanted. He was giving his illegitimate child a fortune while his wife was left with nothing but a dying heart.

Daria traced a finger down Danial's chest. "But what about Deidre? I hate feeling like this, Danial. I hate that our child will be labeled a bastard. I don't want to be a secret forever."

Danial went quiet. The silence stretched out, thick and heavy. When he finally spoke, his voice was devoid of any warmth. "Deidre is just a placeholder. A decoration to keep the Wall Street board happy. She's a Guthrie, and the alliance is useful for now. But her time is running out. I'll deal with her when the moment is right."

The words hit Deidre like a physical blow. A placeholder. A decoration. Her breath hitched in her throat. She pressed a hand over her mouth to muffle the sound of her breaking heart. It wasn't just emotional pain; it was a physical, crushing weight on her chest that made it impossible to draw a full breath.

Daria let out a soft, melodic laugh. It was a sound of pure victory. "You're so good to me. So much better than you are to her. I still remember two years ago, when she had that ectopic pregnancy. It was so hard on her, seeing her crying all over the house broke my heart. It's a shame it had to happen."

Danial's tone hardened instantly. "Don't bring that up. It was an unfortunate accident. I don't want to talk about it. It ruins the mood."

Deidre bit down on the inside of her cheek. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth. An accident. The loss of their daughter was just an annoying blip in his day, a mood ruiner. She swallowed the blood and the bile, her body shaking with suppressed grief.

Danial's phone buzzed. He pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and his expression turned to stone. "It's the board. There's an emergency meeting. I have to go."

Daria pouted, grabbing his tie and pulling him down. She pressed her lips against his, kissing him deeply, right there in the public lobby. It wasn't a quick peck; it was a claim of ownership.

Deidre's stomach he heave. She clamped her hand tighter over her mouth, biting back a dry heave. She watched her husband kiss another woman, the woman carrying his child, and felt a piece of her soul rot away.

"I'll come by your apartment tonight," Danial said, pulling back and stroking her cheek.

"Promise?" Daria whispered.

"Promise."

Danial stood up, adjusted his coat, and strode out of the lobby without a backward glance. The glass doors swung shut behind him, cutting off the cold wind.

The moment he was gone, Daria's soft, vulnerable expression vanished. Her face smoothed into a mask of cold arrogance. She pulled out her phone, her fingers flying across the screen.

"Keep watching her," Daria said into the receiver, her voice sharp and commanding. "I want to know every move she makes."

Deidre's blood ran cold. The anonymous text. It had been Daria all along. She had sent the photo to lure Deidre here, to torture her, to rub her face in the affair.

Daria stood up, smoothing her maternity dress. A burly bodyguard appeared from the hallway, escorting her toward the VIP elevator. The doors slid shut, and the lobby was finally empty.

Deidre's legs gave out. She slid down the wall, collapsing onto the cold marble floor. Her body felt hollowed out, a shell left to rot.

"Ma'am? Are you okay?" A janitor with a mop paused, looking at her with concern.

Deidre shook her head numbly. She forced herself to grip the wall, pulling herself upright. She didn't feel the cold of the floor, didn't feel the ache in her knees. She felt nothing at all.

She walked out of the hospital. The New York blizzard had arrived. The sky was a dark, churning mass of grey, and fat snowflakes were plummeting to the ground. The wind howled down the streets, biting through her thin coat.

Deidre didn't button her coat. She didn't put up her hood. She stepped out into the storm, letting the freezing snow hit her face, melting into her hair and running down her neck like icy fingers.

A placeholder. A decoration. I'll deal with her.

The words echoed in her mind, louder than the storm. She replayed the image of Danial kissing Daria, the promise to visit her apartment tonight.

A black Maybach sped past her, its tires splashing through a slushy puddle. Freezing, dirty water soaked the hem of her coat, but she didn't flinch. She just kept walking, a ghost wandering the streets of Manhattan.

Her hand drifted to her stomach. Underneath the layers of silk and wool, a tiny life was growing. A life she was supposed to terminate. A life she was supposed to sacrifice for a husband who saw her as nothing more than a temporary pawn.

A fierce, unfamiliar resolve began to burn through the ice in her veins. She stopped at a crosswalk, the wind whipping her hair around her face. She pulled her phone out of her wet bag. Her fingers were stiff, but she navigated to her notes app.

She had pages and pages of entries. Folic acid brands. Prenatal yoga classes. Baby name ideas. Months of desperate, hopeful planning for a child she thought she could never have.

Deidre highlighted them all. Every single entry. Every hopeful thought.

She hit delete.

The screen went blank. She stared at it for a long moment, then shoved the phone back into her bag. She looked up into the storm, her face set in hard lines. She was done being a placeholder.

The penthouse in Tribeca was dead silent when Deidre walked in. The warmth of the central heating hit her frozen skin, making her itch. The butler, an older man with a perpetually stoic face, took her soaked coat. He didn't meet her eyes either. Nobody in this house looked at her.

She walked straight to the master bathroom. She turned the shower dial all the way to hot. Steam filled the room, fogging the glass. She stepped under the spray, still wearing her silk blouse, not caring that the water ruined the expensive fabric. She stood there for an hour, scrubbing her skin until it was raw and red, trying to wash away the smell of the hospital, the smell of the snow, the phantom scent of Daria's perfume that she swore she could still taste in the air.

When she finally stepped out, her skin was blotchy and pink. She sat at the vanity. She stared at her reflection. Her face was pale, her eyes hollow. She looked like a corpse. She opened her makeup drawer and began the ritual. Thick concealer under her eyes. Foundation to cover the gray tinge of her skin. Blush to fake a healthy glow. She painted on the mask of the perfect Mrs. Ortega.

At exactly eight o'clock, the electronic lock on the front door beeped. Deidre was sitting on the edge of the sofa in the living room, her hands folded in her lap.

Danial walked in. The scent of his expensive cologne-sandalwood and vetiver-wafted in before he did. He looked immaculate, not a single snowflake on his dark wool coat.

He stopped when he saw her. His eyes flickered with mild surprise before settling into his usual mask of polite detachment. "You're still up."

Deidre didn't answer. She just watched him.

He walked over to her, his steps measured. He leaned down, aiming to press a perfunctory kiss to her forehead. It was a habit, a piece of the performance they put on for the staff.

Deidre turned her head. The kiss landed awkwardly on her hair.

Danial froze. His lips hovered in the air for a second before he pulled back. A small crease formed between his brows. "Are you feeling unwell?"

Deidre looked up, meeting his gaze directly. "I went to the doctor today. I'm just tired."

A flicker of something-guilt, fear, annoyance-passed through Danial's eyes. It was gone in an instant. "The doctor? What did they say?"

Deidre's hand curled into a fist, the sharp edge of the folded diagnosis report digging into her palm inside her sleeve. "Just anemia. Nothing serious. And I'm not pregnant."

The tension in Danial's shoulders evaporated. He let out a quiet sigh of relief. He reached out and patted her shoulder, the way one would pat a dog. "Don't stress about it. These things happen. We'll just let nature take course."

Deidre stared at his hand on her shoulder. Let nature take its course. Today, he had been at a hospital, setting up trust funds and kissing another woman's pregnant belly. Here, he was relieved she wasn't carrying his child. The hypocrisy was so thick she could choke on it.

Danial unbuttoned his coat and tossed it aside. As he pulled off his suit jacket, Deidre's eyes zeroed in on his collar. Stuck to the dark fabric, right at the base of his throat, was a single long strand of golden hair.

Daria's hair.

Deidre's stomach lurched. The nausea was back, violent and sudden. She shot up from the sofa, nearly knocking Danial over.

"I need water," she muttered, practically running into the kitchen.

She stood behind the marble island, gripping the edge of the counter, breathing heavily through the nausea. She poured a glass of water, her hands shaking so badly the liquid sloshed over the rim.

A phone buzzed on the coffee table in the living room. Deidre looked up. It was Danial's phone. The screen lit up with a number. No name, no contact photo. Just a string of digits.

Danial's head snapped toward the phone. His relaxed posture vanished. He snatched the phone off the table and walked quickly to the floor-to-ceiling windows, turning his back to her.

"Speak," he said, his voice low and urgent.

Deidre couldn't hear the person on the other end, but she could see Danial's reflection in the glass. His jaw was clenched. He ran a hand through his hair, a nervous habit he only had when things were spiraling out of his control. He spoke in short, clipped sentences, his tone laced with a frantic concern he never showed her.

The call lasted less than a minute. Danial ended it and turned around. His face was a mask of stone again, but his eyes were hard and calculating.

"There's a crisis with the offshore accounts in Wall Street," he said, adjusting his cuffs. "I need to go handle it immediately."

Deidre set her glass down. She walked out from behind the island and stopped right in front of him. She looked up at his face, searching for a crack, a hint of guilt. Then, she did something she hadn't done in years. She reached out and grabbed the sleeve of his shirt.

"Stay," she whispered. The word was barely audible. "Stay here tonight."

Danial looked down at her hand on his sleeve. His eyes narrowed. He didn't try to pry her fingers off; he just gave her a look of cold disdain. "Deidre, don't be childish. This is about the family's interests. I don't have time for your clinginess."

"Is it really the accounts?" Deidre asked. Her voice was steady, but the tremor in her fingers betrayed her. "Or is it her?"

Danial's gaze turned sharp, dangerous. "What did you say?"

"Are you going to her?" Deidre pressed, her grip tightening on his sleeve. "Are you going to Daria?"

The silence in the room was deafening. The air between them crackled with tension. Danial leaned down, his face inches from hers. "Are you having a paranoid episode? Because if you're going to start making baseless accusations, I suggest you check yourself into a facility."

Deidre didn't back down. She stared into his cold, dark eyes, and she saw nothing but emptiness. No love. No guilt. Just a stranger who wore her husband's face.

Danial yanked his arm free. He straightened his tie, his lip curling in disgust. "Get some sleep. You're being irrational."

He turned on his heel and walked out. The front door slammed shut with a heavy, final thud.

Deidre stood alone in the massive living room. The silence rushed back in, louder than before. She walked slowly to the floor-to-ceiling window and looked out at the glittering Manhattan skyline. The city was alive, but she was dead.

A tear slipped down her cheek. Then another. She didn't bother wiping them away. She pulled out her phone and opened the calendar. Tomorrow's date was highlighted in red. A small black cross marked the day.

It was the anniversary of Lily's death.

A sudden, vice-like grip seized her chest. Deidre gasped, her hand flying to her heart. It felt like her ribs were being crushed in a vise. She stumbled backward, hitting the cold glass. She slid down to the floor, her vision blurring.

She clawed at her purse, her fingers scrambling for the small orange bottle of emergency pills. She popped the cap, dumping two pills into her palm, and shoved them into her mouth. She dry-swallowed them, her body wracked with violent tremors.

She curled into a ball on the icy floor, clutching her chest, waiting for the medication to kick in. She stared at the empty space where Danial had stood. The illusion was shattered. The man she had loved for five years, the man she had nearly died for, was a monster. And she was entirely alone.