Isla
*BRAAAP-BOOM*
The city pulses with celebration—fireworks cracking overhead, music bleeding through the frosty air, laughter spilling from the open doors of the Blackwood Hotel.
I tighten the silk wrap around my shoulders, my pulse hammering as I step inside.
Tonight was supposed to be different. A fresh start.
Alex had been distant for months, but I'd chalked it up to stress. That's why I'd spent hours getting ready—wearing the emerald dress he'd once called stunning, curling my hair the way he used to tug at it in bed. I still believed in us.
God, I was an idiot.
I spot him instantly. He's at the center of the room, flawless in his tuxedo, champagne flute dangling from his fingers like he hasn't a care in the world.
Then I see her.
Jane.
She's pressed against him, her blood-red dress leaving nothing to the imagination. Her nails drag down his lapel, her lips curved in a smirk.
My breath stalls.
Alex tilts his head—slow, deliberate—and kisses her. Right there. In front of everyone.
The floor lurches beneath me.
A few guests glance my way, but no one reacts. No one's surprised.
My heels click against marble as I stride forward, my stomach churning. The baby kicks, hard, like it senses the betrayal before I do.
This isn't happening.
"Alex?" My voice cracks.
He pulls back from Jane, blinking at me like I'm a telemarketer interrupting dinner. "Oh. You're here."
My hands shake. "What the hell is this?"
Jane laughs, draping herself over his arm. "Oh, sweetheart. You really need it spelled out?" Her grin is all teeth. "I'm his mistress."
The words hit like a slap.
No. No, no—
"We're married, " I choke out. "Alex, tell me this is some sick joke."
He sighs, pulls a folded paper from his jacket, and tosses it onto a table.
I already know what it is. Petition for Divorce. My name stares back in bold black letters.
"When?" My voice is barely audible.
"Last week." He takes a sip of champagne. "Didn't want to ruin your holiday spirit."
Last week. While I was picking up his dry cleaning. While I was lying awake waiting for him to come home.
Jane traces his jaw. "Aw, Isla. You actually thought he loved you?"
The room tilts. My ears ring.
Alex watches me, his expression blank—until his mouth curls.
"Isla," he says, so casually it guts me, "I never loved you."
Something snaps inside my chest.
The guests murmur. No one steps forward. No one says he's lying.
I clutch my stomach. The baby kicks again, frantic.
"Alex," I whisper, "I'm—I'm pregnant. Our child—"
He shrugs. "Not my problem."
Jane tsks. "A baby? That's your play?" She rolls her eyes. "Pathetic."
A searing pain tears through my abdomen.
I gasp, doubling over. No. Not now. Not like this.
The glass slips from my hand, shattering on the floor.
"Isla?" Someone says my name, but it's distant. The room spins. My vision tunnels.
I look up at Alex, pleading. "Something's wrong—the baby— please —"
He sighs. "Don't make a scene."
Another contraction rips through me. I collapse to my knees.
My water just broke.
Whispers erupt. A few guests wince, but most just shift uncomfortably, like I'm a drunk they'd rather ignore.
I reach for Alex. "I—I think it's time—"
He doesn't move. "Not now, Isla."
Jane giggles, loud enough for the room to hear. "Ugh, she's ruining the party."
Alex jerks his chin at security. "Get her out."
What?
Hands grab me from behind. I thrash, screaming, "Alex!"
He doesn't even look at me.
Jane smirks. "So dramatic."
They drag me toward the exit. My heels scrape marble. "Alex, I'm having your BABY!"
Nothing.
The doors slam behind me.
Winter air punches my lungs. The guards dump me onto the pavement like garbage.
I'm alone.
Snow soaks through my dress. Another contraction bends me in half. I sob, clutching my stomach.
People walk past—partygoers in glittering dresses, men in tuxedos. No one stops.
I grab a stranger's sleeve. "Help me—"
He yanks his arm back like I'm diseased.
My phone. Where's my—
I fumble for it, fingers numb. The screen blurs.
Ring. Ring.
"911, what's your emergency?"
"I'm— labor—" I gasp. "Blackwood Hotel— please—"
Another contraction. I scream.
Fireworks explode overhead, painting the sky in gold.
Happy New Year.
The world fades to black.
Somewhere inside, Alex is laughing.
And my baby—
Oh God, my baby—
The first thing I notice is the smell—sharp, sterile, the kind that clings to the back of your throat. Antiseptic. Death.
My body feels hollowed out, like someone scooped out my insides and left the shell.
I blink against the fluorescent lights. White walls. Beeping machines. Stiff sheets that don't smell like home.
Home.
Does that even exist anymore?
I try to speak, but my throat's raw. "The baby…"
Silence.
A nurse glances up from her clipboard. Her face does that thing—the pressed lips, the too-quick smile. Pity.
No. No, no, no—
I lurch upright, and pain rips through me. The memories flood back—New Year's Eve. Alex's smirk. Jane's laugh. The pavement, the blood, the nothingness after.
"Where's my baby?" My voice cracks.
The nurse hesitates. That pause—God, that pause—it's worse than anything.
"I'm so sorry," she says softly.
Something inside me breaks.
I stare at her, waiting for the lie, the "Just kidding!", the "We moved them to another room!"
But no one comes. No tiny cries. No doctor with a bundle wrapped in blue.
Just silence.
A scream builds in my chest, but it never comes out. Instead, I shatter silently, tears dripping off my chin as I clutch my stomach—empty, so fucking empty—where my baby used to kick.
The baby I sang to. The heartbeat I heard just last month. Gone.
Alex did this.
He left me there. Watched me collapse. Let them drag me out like trash.
And Jane? She laughed.
A knock at the door. The doctor walks in, all practiced sympathy. "Mrs. Moreau—"
"Don't." My voice is shredded glass. "I'm not his anything."
He clears his throat. "We need to discuss… arrangements."
Arrangements. A funeral for a life that never got to start.
I dig my nails into my palms. "Bury them. Properly."
The casket is too small. Unnaturally small.
Gray sky. A priest mumbling words I don't hear. No family. No friends.
And him? Nowhere.
No call. No apology. Not even a fucking flower.
I stand there, clutching a single white rose, the cold seeping into my bones.
I don't cry.
Because the grief is hardening into something else.
Rage.
As the dirt hits the casket, I whisper a promise to the dead:
"You'll pay for this."
One week later.
I show up at Alex's office in a black dress that hugs my new body—the one without the bump.
The receptionist's eyes dart to my flat stomach. Where's the baby? her face screams.
Good. Let her wonder.
"I need to see my husband," I whisper, voice wobbling.
She hesitates. "He's busy—"
"Please." I bite my lip, eyes swimming. "Just five minutes."
She caves.
Of course he'll see me. The narcissist thinks I'm here to beg.
---
Alex lounges behind his desk, untouched by guilt. Jane perches on the couch like a smug cat.
"Well, well," she purrs. "No pregnancy suits you."
My nails dig into my palms. Not yet.
Alex sighs. "What do you want, Isla?"
I clutch the divorce papers. "I… signed them."
His smirk is vile. "Good. It's for the best."
For the best? After killing our child?
I force tears. "Why did you do it?"
He has the audacity to look pained. "We were a mistake, Isla. But Jane? I love her."
Jane snorts. "He was miserable with you. Just leave."
I let my face crumple. "I don't… want to be alone."
Alex's eyes light up. "We can still be friends."
Friends. After this?
I nod, playing meek. "I'd like that."
Jane rolls her eyes. "Pathetic."
Alex leans in, brushing hair from my face. "You should've been this obedient from the start."
His touch makes my skin crawl.
Then—perfectly on cue—my knees buckle. The room spins.
Collapse.
Let him think I'm broken.
Let him underestimate me.
Because when I rise?
I'll bury them both.