I was eight months pregnant when my husband, Brandon, invited me to the 15th-anniversary celebration of his company. Even with my heavy belly, I spent the entire afternoon trying on dress after dress, finally settling on a navy-blue silk maxi dress, soft and flowing. I even curled my hair slightly and wore the earrings Brandon had given me for our second wedding anniversary. I still hoped, just a little, that he would look at me and smile like he used to.
The party was held at a luxury hotel in downtown Seattle. As I stepped into the grand ballroom, crystal chandeliers sparkled above, and wine flowed. I gently held Brandon’s hand. He wore the gray suit I once picked out for him, his face glowing with confidence. In that brief moment, I told myself, Maybe tonight could be the start of something new for us.
But I was wrong. The first person who came up to us was Abigail, Brandon’s executive assistant. She was young, tall, with flowing blonde waves and a smile that looked glued to her face. From the moment we stepped in, she clung to Brandon’s arm, laughing and talking as if this was their event. She called him “Bran,” lightly patted his chest, and tilted her head often, showing off her sparkling earrings like she was on display. I stood right next to them, yet it felt like I was watching a stage I hadn’t been invited to perform on.
“Meline,” Abigail suddenly turned to me, her voice as sweet as honey, “I hope you don’t mind me keeping him for so long.”
I smiled politely. “It’s okay. I understand how busy your job must be.”
“I just want everything to go according to plan tonight,” she said, immediately turning back to Brandon, not even waiting for my response. Brandon said nothing, offering only a vague smile.
I took a step back, something in the air making it hard to breathe. I walked toward the windows, looking for a quiet place to sit. My belly felt heavy, not just from the baby, but from the weight of being sidelined, forgotten in my own relationship. I placed my hand on my stomach, feeling each small kick, a quiet reminder that I wasn’t truly alone. But what unsettled me most was the way Abigail looked at me. It wasn’t admiration; it was the look of someone who believed she had already won—smug, proud, calculating. And Brandon? He didn’t seem to notice. Or worse, he noticed and chose not to care.
I was sitting in a corner of the room when Abigail appeared in front of me, holding a glass of red wine. “Meline,” she said with that dazzling smile, “I know you’re pregnant, but one sip won’t hurt. This one’s special, imported from Napa Valley. You really should try it.”
I smiled faintly and shook my head. “Thank you, but I’m not drinking right now.”
She tilted her head. “Oh, that’s such a shame. I poured this one just for you. You wouldn’t want to hurt my feelings, would you?” Her voice was loud enough for the people nearby to hear.
I glanced at Brandon a few steps away, chatting with partners, completely oblivious. “Abigail,” I kept my voice calm, “I really can’t drink.”
She still wouldn’t back off. “Well, at least hold it for me, will you? My hands are freezing.” Before I could respond, she shoved the glass into my hand. As I instinctively reached out, she “accidentally” nudged my wrist. The wine tipped forward, spilling all over her ivory silk dress.
She froze, her eyes wide. “Oh no!” she cried, her voice echoing through the room. “This dress was a birthday gift from my mother! It’s custom-made from Paris! How could you?”
I was stunned. Every eye in the room turned to me. Whispers started rippling. Before I could say a word, Abigail began sobbing, loud and dramatic, then ran from the room. I just stood there, still holding the bottom half of the glass, wine dripping onto the carpet. Someone whispered, “Who spills wine on someone else at a party like this?”
I turned to Brandon, hoping he’d step in, tell everyone it was an accident. But he just stood there, his expression unreadable, then turned away like he was ashamed of me.
I don’t remember how I made it out of that ballroom. I found the restroom, locked the door, and for the first time in months, I let myself cry. Not over the dress, not over the wine, but over Brandon’s eyes, over his silence. I realized I hadn’t just been humiliated by a cunning young woman but betrayed by the man who once promised to protect me. And worse, I began to wonder if this wasn’t an accident at all.
When I stepped out of the restroom, the party was back in full swing. But behind me were whispers and judgmental stares. I didn’t go back to Brandon. I walked straight to the exit, hailed a cab, and went home alone.
I woke up the next morning, aching all over. Then the sound of constant notifications from my phone made my skin crawl. When I opened my social media, my heart dropped. A short video, barely a minute long, showed me dancing in the living room, cradling my pregnant belly. It had been recorded a few weeks earlier on a night I tried to cheer him up. I wore a light T-shirt and comfy pants, no makeup. I was smiling as I turned, patting my belly like I was dancing with my son.
Beneath the video were thousands of comments, not words of encouragement, but raw mockery. Who does she think she is? A pregnant elephant putting on a show? Look at that belly, about to burst!
I was frozen. That video… only Brandon had it. A horrifying thought crept in: he was the one who leaked it.
I got up, no time to change. I just needed answers. The front door of the house we shared was unlocked. I stepped in and heard laughter upstairs. His small home office.
A man’s voice rang out. “You really pulled it off, Brandon. Turned a boring wife into the office’s best entertainment.”
Brandon’s voice followed, calm and cold. “She danced like she was in some comedy skit. Her belly looked like a balloon, and she was still twisting around like a ballerina.” Both of them burst out laughing.
I gripped the corner of the wall, my nails digging into the plaster.
Brandon’s voice softened, but the bitterness remained. “She thought a few little dances would make me stay. She doesn’t get it. I’ve been over this life for a long time. A woman nearing 35, drained, heavy. What’s there to hold on to?”
“Abigail’s prettier, younger, sharper,” the other man chimed in. “That’s your world now, Brandon.”
I couldn’t listen anymore. I slipped away like a shadow. I used to believe that if something awful happened, Brandon would be the first to protect me. But the truth was, he stood behind me and shoved me into the mud.
That night, I received a message from an anonymous account. It was another clip: footage of Brandon’s office. People were gathered, watching my video. At the head of the table sat Brandon, smirking, holding a remote like he was screening a comedy short. Abigail sat beside him, whispering in his ear before bursting into louder giggles.
I stood there, stunned. I was expected to be responsible for someone else’s emotions. I stared at the screen, then turned back to the front desk of the OB clinic where I had an appointment. “I’m sorry,” I said, my voice still. “I need to reschedule. I need more time.”
I left the clinic. For the first time, I didn’t know what I would do next. But I knew I couldn’t decide while my heart was still bleeding from lies.
That night, I returned to the apartment. As I opened the door, I caught a familiar scent: Abigail’s perfume. It lingered on the sofa, along with a faint lipstick mark on the rim of a glass.
“What are you doing here?” Brandon asked, unable to hide his annoyance.
“I live here,” I replied coolly.
He stepped forward. “I texted you. We need to talk.”
“About what? How you spread that video? Or how your assistant poured wine on a pregnant woman and blamed her?”
“You’re overreacting. That video was just a light moment. People needed a laugh. And Abigail, she didn’t mean any harm.”
“You’re telling me I overreacted? After your entire office mocked my body? After you projected my pregnancy as a punchline?”
Brandon pulled out his phone and showed me a photo: him and Abigail smiling by a lakeside resort I’d never heard of. “What am I in your life?” I asked, my voice hitting like a stone.
“You were everything,” he answered without hesitation. “But you changed. You’re not the woman I fell in love with anymore.”
I nodded. “No. I’m just pregnant. And you… you never really loved me.” I turned away, took the keys from my bag, and placed them on the table. “You can keep the house. But you’ll never keep me.” As I walked out the door, I didn’t look back.
Three days after our final conversation, I received an invitation to his company’s year-end party. Part of me wanted to rip it up, but another part, a part where a few embers of buried dignity still lingered, whispered that I needed to go.
I arrived in a long-sleeved black dress, simple yet elegant. My belly was already huge, and each step felt slow and heavy. Abigail stood next to Brandon, dressed in a bright red gown, her smile leaving no doubt about her sense of ownership.
Just as I poured myself a glass of water, Abigail approached. “Meline, I wanted to offer you a toast,” she beamed, “to clear up any misunderstandings.”
“I’m not drinking,” I replied calmly. “I’m pregnant, you know that.”
“Oh, just one sip! Didn’t you dance in that video? One little sip won’t hurt,” she said loudly enough for everyone nearby to hear.
I set my glass down and tried to walk away, but suddenly, a senior employee blocked my path, smirking. “Madeline, I heard you used to be a dancer. The whole room’s curious for a live performance.”
I froze. The lights went out, and a single spotlight pointed straight at me. Then came the music, the same tune from the leaked video.
“This is too much,” I said, my voice trembling.
“Come on,” someone laughed. “We’re just celebrating the company’s most viral moment!”
I stepped back, my heart pounding. At that moment, a hand spun me around. Abigail. “Oh, come on! You used to dance so well. One more time!”
I pushed her away. Her wine glass flew from her hand, spilling all over my dress and the floor. A few people screamed, then laughter followed. My vision blurred. I staggered back, and then a sharp pain hit my abdomen. My legs buckled. A warm fluid rushed between my thighs, pooling on the polished marble floor.
I screamed in panic. “Brandon! I… I’m going into labor! Please, take me to the hospital!”
Brandon stepped forward, frowning. “Cut it out, Meline. Are you really pulling this stunt now? Trying to steal attention again?”
“No!” I cried. “My water just broke! The baby!”
But he just sighed and turned away. “Someone get her out of here. Don’t ruin the party.”
I lay there, shaking. No one came. Nearly two hours later, a night janitor found me unconscious in a downstairs restroom, my face pale, my lips bluish.
When I woke up, it was morning. The doctor spoke softly, like he was afraid I’d collapse. “We did everything we could, but… we were too late.”
I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I just stared at the stark white ceiling, listening to the soft hum of the air conditioner like a tragic lullaby. Something inside me had died. And there was no one to blame but the man who once vowed to protect me forever.
I left the hospital on a freezing early morning. I left Seattle on the last night train, heading south to a small coastal town. There, no one knew who I was. I rented a tiny room above an old bookstore, changed my bank account name, shut down all social media, and cut every tie.
Brandon realized I was gone the next day. He arrived at the hospital with a small gift box. He had no idea I had lost the baby, not until the nurse on duty looked him dead in the eye and said, “She lost the baby. And no one was there for her. Not a single person.”
Brandon stood frozen. But his nightmare had only begun. Three days later, back at the office, he overheard Abigail giggling with colleagues. He paused outside the door.
Her voice rang out, sharp and smug. “Who would have thought? Just one tiny pill, and it worked better than I imagined. She nearly collapsed on the spot. Took me a whole month to find the right kind, the kind that triggers early contractions but leaves no trace.”
Someone whispered, “Wait, you put something in her drink?”
Abigail burst out laughing. “Let’s just say I gave things a little nudge. And gave Brandon his freedom, too. He was so tired of living with a gloomy woman.”
The whole room laughed, until they realized the door had opened. Brandon stepped inside, his face white as a sheet. “What did you say?” he asked, his voice hoarse. “Say it again, Abigail. What did you do?”
Abigail froze, then quickly regained her composure. “Brandon, I was just joking!”
“Joking?” Brandon cut her off, his eyes cold as steel. “A woman lost her baby because of what you did, and you call that a joke?”
He pulled out his phone, tapped a few times, and held it up to her. The screen displayed a resignation letter, already filled out. “Pack your things. Now. And don’t ever let me see you within a hundred miles of this office again.”
In the weeks that followed, Brandon tried everything to find me. But I had disappeared. His company spiraled into chaos. The recording from the breakroom had been leaked. The press got involved. Investors pulled out. Brandon Lawson, the man once celebrated on the cover of business magazines, became the face of moral collapse.
I didn’t care. I just sat in my small room in that quiet seaside town, sipping hot tea and reading. I had lost a part of my soul, but I had reclaimed the rest: my freedom. And this time, I wouldn’t let anyone take it away.