My Husband Made Me Abort, His Mistress Didn't

The cramping hadn't stopped since this morning, a dull ache that reminded me of what I'd lost just forty-eight hours ago. But here I was, stepping out of our black Tesla in front of the Metropolitan Museum, my emerald Valentino gown flowing perfectly despite the fact that I could barely stand straight.

Smile, Eva. This is part of the test.

The Whitmore Foundation's annual charity gala was the social event of the season—five hundred of New York's elite gathered to bid on art pieces worth more than most people's houses. I'd attended four of these galas as Alex's wife, but tonight felt different. Tonight, I was performing.

"Mrs. Whitmore, you look absolutely radiant," chirped Amanda Richardson, one of the museum board members. Her eyes held that peculiar combination of pity and curiosity that I'd been seeing lately.

"Thank you," I managed, my voice steady despite the exhaustion weighing down my bones. Alex was already several steps ahead, his attention focused entirely on the woman beside him.

Victoria Sterling looked like she'd stepped off a magazine cover. Her midnight blue Dior gown accentuated curves that were just beginning to show her condition—three months along, according to the whispers I'd been pretending not to hear. Her dark hair was pulled into an elegant chignon, and she moved with the confidence of someone who knew she belonged here.

Someone who knew she was wanted here.

"Alex, you're so thoughtful," Victoria's voice carried clearly over the cocktail hour chatter. "Thank you for making sure I had the mineral water. You know how important it is for the baby."

I watched my husband's face soften in a way it hadn't for me in months. He adjusted her shawl around her shoulders with infinite care, his fingers lingering longer than necessary.

Focus on the mission. Fifteen billion dollars. Our future depends on this.

"Eva, darling." Margaret Whitmore materialized beside me, her silver hair perfectly coiffed, her smile sharp enough to cut glass. "You're looking a bit pale tonight. Perhaps you should have stayed home to rest?"

"I'm perfectly fine, Margaret," I replied, though the cramping chose that moment to intensify.

"Of course you are." Her gaze drifted to where Alex was laughing at something Victoria had whispered in his ear. "You know, I was just telling the Patterson's how refreshing it is to see Alex looking so... alive again. Victoria has such a natural way of bringing out his best qualities."

The words hit like a slap, but I kept my expression neutral. Around us, I could hear the familiar hum of gossip beginning to build.

"Did you see how he's been ignoring her all evening?"

"That's the second time he's forgotten to introduce her to someone important."

"Poor thing. She used to be so confident..."

I excused myself and made my way toward the silent auction tables, desperately needing something to do with my hands. The catalog felt heavy in my grip as I flipped through pages of contemporary art, though none of the colors and shapes managed to penetrate the haze in my mind.

"Eva!" Caroline Walsh, my former Columbia classmate, appeared at my elbow. "I haven't seen you in ages. How are things?"

Before I could answer, she glanced toward Alex and Victoria, who were now standing near the Rothko exhibit. Alex had his hand protectively placed on Victoria's lower back, and she was leaning into him as if they'd been together for years instead of... however long this had been going on.

Caroline's smile faltered. "Oh. I see."

The evening continued like a masterclass in psychological torture. At dinner, I found myself seated three places down from Alex, while Victoria occupied the seat of honor at his right hand. I watched him cut her meat when she claimed the pregnancy made her too nauseous to handle the knife. I watched him fetch her a cushion when she mentioned her back aching. I watched him treat her with the kind of tender solicitude he'd shown me when I was—

Don't think about that. It's over. It had to be over.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the evening's host called for attention as dessert was being served. "I'd like to take a moment to thank the Whitmore family for their extraordinary generosity. Alex, would you like to say a few words?"

My husband rose gracefully, his hand briefly touching Victoria's shoulder as he passed behind her chair. He didn't even glance in my direction.

"Thank you all for being here tonight," Alex began, his voice carrying easily through the ballroom. "The Whitmore Foundation has always been about supporting the arts and the remarkable women who make them possible."

His gaze found Victoria, and for a moment, the rest of the room seemed to disappear.

"Some people come into your life and remind you what really matters. What's worth fighting for. What's worth... everything."

The applause was thunderous, but all I could hear was the blood rushing in my ears. Victoria was glowing, her hand resting protectively over her still-small bump.

I made it through the rest of the evening on autopilot, nodding and smiling and playing the part of the devoted wife who definitely wasn't being slowly erased from her own life. When Alex finally approached me near the coat check, I could barely remember how to form words.

"Ready to go?" he asked, his tone politely distant, as if I were a colleague he barely knew.

"Of course."

The ride home was silent except for the soft jazz playing through the speakers. Alex stared out his window, probably texting Victoria. I pressed my face against the cool glass and tried not to think about how different this car had felt three days ago, when I'd been driven to the clinic. How different everything had felt.

Back at our penthouse, I locked myself in the guest bathroom and finally, finally, let the mask slip. My reflection looked like a ghost—pale, hollow-eyed, diminished. The carefully applied makeup couldn't hide the exhaustion or the grief that seemed to seep from my very bones.

This is just a test, I whispered to my reflection, the words feeling smaller each time I said them. Alex loves me. He married me. He chose me.

I pressed my palm against my still-flat stomach, remembering the weight that had been there just days ago. Such a tiny thing, barely real, but I'd wanted it so desperately. And Alex had looked at me with such gentle firmness when he'd explained why it couldn't be.

Not yet, Eva. Not during the test. You understand.

I understood. I always understood.

The cramping pulsed through me again, a reminder of choices made and unmade. In twelve hours, I'd have to wake up and do this all over again. Put on the smile, play the part, watch my husband treat another woman like she carried something precious while I carried only emptiness.

Three months. It had been exactly three months since everything changed.

I closed my eyes and let myself remember that night—the last normal evening of my life.