When I got pregnant, my husband fell for his young, delicate secretary.
On New Year’s Eve, he and his secretary—dressed in a slinky red gown—holed up in a private club room, toasting to “good fortune.”
When I stormed in, the secretary tilted her pale neck, flaunting a trail of fresh hickeys.
“Don’t get the wrong idea, Mrs. Remington!” she simpered. “It’s almost New Year’s, and I’m just helping Max shake off bad luck. You know, for prosperity!”
My husband shot me a glare. “You’re pregnant—you can’t satisfy me. I’m a man with needs, Sophie. Lily’s just… accommodating.”
The stress and rage hit me like a truck. At seven months pregnant, my water broke right there.
But the secretary smirked. “She’s faking it. Peeing herself for attention.”
My husband bought her lie. Humiliated, he locked me in the bathroom, leaving me there while he spent the next three days screwing his secretary.
When he finally opened the door, his face went ghost-white. My belly was flat.
The Setup
That night, Maxime Remington had gone out with his buddies for a “New Year’s Eve celebration” while I stayed home, heavy with pregnancy.
Then, a text lit up my phone—an address from Maxime. [Honey, I have a surprise for you.]
Heart fluttering, I rushed to the club, cradling my belly. But the moment I pushed open the door, my joy shattered.
The room reeked of booze and cigarette smoke.
Lily Cartwright—Maxime’s secretary—perched on his lap, glassy-eyed and flushed. His grip on her waist was possessive, her dress hiked up shamelessly.
That crimson gown? A Suzhou embroidery masterpiece. My wedding gown.
Maxime had stolen it for his twisted little game.
Lily’s half-naked body burned into my vision.
“Max, go slow… be gentle with me.”
“You beg for it five times a day, then play shy?”
They made out like animals, oblivious to the room. His friends lounged around, each with a girl in their lap, watching like it was prime-time entertainment.
Juan, one of his buddies, smirked. “Damn, Lily. No wonder Max ditched his wife tonight.”
Maxime exhaled, smug. “A virtuous wife has her uses, but let’s be real—Sophie’s gotten fat and frumpy. No spark left.”
Lily traced circles on his chest, pouting. “Max, you’re terrible! I’m a good girl.”
“Yeah, yeah. Happy New Year, my good girl.” He slipped a diamond necklace into her dress, making her giggle.
Someone laughed. “Aren’t you scared your wife’ll divorce you?”
Maxime waved it off. “She’s pregnant with my kid. Where’s she gonna go?”
Then came the wet, obscene sounds of their kissing.
My stomach twisted. Face pale, I shoved the door wider.
Silence.
Maxime scrambled to cover Lily with a coat—like that mattered now.
I almost laughed. My fists clenched.
“You disgusting piece of—”
