Chapter 2
637words
Her latest post showed her and Samuel embracing beneath spectacular fireworks forming the shape of a baby's cradle. I recognized it instantly—the pregnancy celebration Samuel had originally planned for me.
Now it served as the backdrop for their very public reconciliation.
Over the past year, such betrayals had become commonplace. I'd grown so numb I could calmly "like" their post.
Almost instantly, Samuel called, his tone venomous: "What the hell do you mean by liking our post?"
"Nothing special. Congratulations to you both."
"Winnie Thompson, you forced my hand. Don't come crying back to me later." Samuel's voice returned to its usual casual indifference. He likely assumed this was just another of my games—playing hard to get—and hung up abruptly.
I stared into the pitch-black night outside my window as I mechanically swallowed a handful of multi-colored prenatal vitamins.
In the days that followed, Samuel systematically reduced me to a laughingstock among our social circle.
He ostentatiously escorted Rachel to elite gatherings, lavishing her with exorbitant jewelry and career opportunities, elevating the already-popular actress to unprecedented heights.
They even announced a lavish engagement ceremony.
A courier respectfully delivered a crimson invitation card to my door.
I accepted it calmly, without my usual hysterics. Yet Samuel's expression darkened with each passing day.
"You pathetic woman, why bother staying by his side? His heart and body both belong to me now." I glanced at Rachel's taunting message, then methodically tore the invitation to shreds.
I turned and walked into the nursery, surveying the baby items Samuel had meticulously arranged—from the cradle to the toys, everything perfect.
My stomach began to ache again, and a metallic taste rose in my throat, trickling from the corner of my mouth.
I trembled as I caressed my swollen belly. This child was my final bargaining chip.
I would make Samuel Sanders regret his choices for the rest of his life.
Samuel Sanders' birthday party arrived.
Rachel Lawrence played the perfect hostess, clinging to Samuel's arm as they circulated among guests, accepting congratulations.
Meanwhile I—the heavily pregnant "ex" who might as well have been invisible—stood in the corner like an outsider, enduring looks of either pity or derision from all sides.
Rachel sauntered toward me, wine glass in hand. She proudly raised her hand, the enormous pink diamond on her finger flashing blindingly under the chandeliers.
My eyes ached from its ostentatious brilliance.
I knew that design intimately—I'd sketched it myself when Samuel and I had decided to marry. Now that exact design adorned another woman's finger.
Her diamond, however, was significantly larger and more expensive than mine had been.
Just as she now looked radiant and stunning, while I—ravaged by pregnancy complications—appeared pale, thin, and haggard.
"Winnie, darling, why have you let yourself go like this?"
"When Samuel was done with you, I suggested he at least leave you some money so you wouldn't live in squalor. I never imagined..."
"Even while clinging to him, you're living so shabbily. Someone might think you've gone back to peddling your little paintings." She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper dripping with contempt and cruelty.
Samuel stood nearby. He witnessed everything yet allowed Rachel to humiliate me.
He was waiting—waiting for me to break down, to bow my head, to beg him as I always had before.
I stepped forward.
To everyone's shock, I lunged forward, grabbed Rachel's perfectly styled hair, and with all my strength, slapped her hard across the face!
"Ah!" Rachel screamed, crumpling to the floor.
"Winnie Thompson!" Samuel's face contorted with rage as he lunged forward, grabbing my arm to drag me toward the restroom.
I fought against his grip, but suddenly an excruciating pain knifed through my abdomen.
I froze instantly. Warm liquid trickled down my thighs.
