I Can Hear My Unborn Baby’s Thoughts, and We’re Taking Down the Other Woman Together Chapter 04

I Can Hear My Unborn Baby’s Thoughts, and We’re Taking Down the Other Woman Together Chapter 04

When I opened my eyes again, the air smelled like disinfectant.

The ache in my belly was gone, replaced by the soft hum of a fetal monitor.

[Wahhh, Mom, you’re awake! You scared me to death!]

My baby’s weak but lively little voice filled my head, thick with worry.

[Don’t worry, Mom. The doctor said the baby’s fine and you’re okay. But that dumb Dad out there? He’s so pathetic. He’s been standing guard in the hallway like a statue for like, a whole day and night. His eyes are all red and creepy, and he won’t leave no matter what anyone says.]

Hearing that the baby was safe, the tension inside me finally snapped. Tears slid silently down my cheeks.

The door creaked open.

Declan’s tall frame shuffled in stiffly. He was wearing just a thin shirt, dark stubble shadowing his jaw. Those eyes—once sharp as an eagle’s from a rescue helicopter—were now bloodshot and full of fear.

When he saw I was awake, he froze. His hands twisted the hem of his shirt. He wanted to come closer but was scared of upsetting me, so he just stood at the foot of the bed like a guilty kid.

“Where’s all that yelling from yesterday?” I propped myself up on the pillow, my voice weak but my eyes cold.

“Declan, I’ll ask you once. Five months. The group rescued you and brought you back. Why didn’t you contact me?”

Declan flinched, agony flooding his face.

He opened his mouth, but the two screams he’d managed yesterday had shredded his barely healed vocal cords. Now, with his emotions raging, his PTSD slammed back down, and all that came out were broken, airless sounds.

Desperate, he pulled out his work phone, his hands shaking as he pulled up a text thread and stumbled to the bedside, holding the screen out to me.

It was the message he’d sent to his Marla, from a new number after he woke up from his injuries.

And there, in black and white, was Marla’s cruel reply: [Son, don’t go looking for Sage. She thought you were dead. She took the money from the group and said she wasn’t going to be a widow.]

[She already aborted the baby and is marrying Old Man Tucker next door. You’re badly hurt. Don’t ruin her new life.]

And right below it, a memo from Sloane: [Captain Hayes, as your primary doctor, I’m recommending emotional containment therapy. She’s moved on. You showing up would only weigh her down and scare her. Forgetting her is the only way you’re going to heal.]

Reading those words, ice flooded my veins.

“Nice. ‘Start over.’ ‘Don’t burden her.'”

I laughed through the tears streaming down my face, my teeth clenched as I glared at him.

“The money? I never even saw the death certificate the group sent out! Marla threw me out a month after you disappeared. She was drowning in gambling debt and tried to sell me to Old Man Tucker.”

“I’ve been hiding out in some leaky basement apartment, begging for cash just to afford my prenatal appointments. All to protect your baby.”

“Declan, I thought you were dead. I nearly died myself keeping your child safe. And you? You believed that evil woman and that scheming shrink instead of coming to see for yourself?”

Declan looked like he’d been struck by lightning.

He stared at my pale, gaunt face, and everything—the lies, the fragments, the truth—exploded inside him. The betrayal of the woman who raised him, the brainwashing by his doctor, the crushing guilt over me… it broke the steel man completely.

“I’m… sor…” His knees buckled. He half-knelt by my bed, clutching his hair, tears splashing on the floor. He fought to force out a full sentence, but the aphasia strangled his throat, leaving only anguished, hopeless groans.

Watching him tear himself apart with guilt, I turned my face away and closed my eyes. “Get out. I don’t want to see you right now.”

Declan’s hand hung in the air. Finally, he didn’t push. He just stumbled back, his eyes red, and left the room.

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

My phone buzzed a few times on the nightstand.

I picked it up. Texts from Declan.

The screen flickered with heartbreaking little notifications:

[Declan is typing…]

[Declan unsent a message]

[Declan unsent a voice message]

[Declan unsent a message]

Half the screen was filled with messages he’d typed and then erased. I could picture him out in the hallway, that once-fearless rescue commander, now clumsily tapping at his phone, not knowing how to beg his wife for forgiveness.

Then the screen went still. One lonely line remained, so humble it hurt.

[Sage, please don’t leave me.]

I stared at those words for a long time. Then I locked the screen, said nothing, and tucked the phone under my pillow.

The next morning, a nurse came in to check on me. She glanced at the door and said softly, “Your husband is something else. He sat on

that bench out there all night. Mr. Thompson came to send him home, but he wouldn’t budge.”

She paused, then asked carefully, “Do you want me to request a move to a VIP room upstairs? Better privacy. Keycard access. He wouldn’t be able to get in and bother you.”

I leaned back on my pillow, my gaze drifting to the half-open door. I could just see the edge of a gray sleeve, damp with morning dew.

After a moment, I looked away.

“No.” I touched my round belly, my voice calm but with a hint of something softer. “If I change rooms, that idiot won’t be able to find me.”