Married to the Billionaire Who Betrayed Me novel Chapter 17

Chapter 17 A Secret Heartbeat Inside Me

The dark stain spread across my fingertips, a terrifying contrast against my pale skin.

I stared at the blood. The remaining air drained from my cheap studio apartment. A high, thin ringing sound filled my ears, drowning out the drumming of the rain against the window. Another cramp tore through my lower abdomen, sharper this time carrying the brutal sensation of tearing tissue. I curled into a tight ball on the frayed carpet. My breath came in short, ragged gasps.

What is wrong with me? I reached for my phone. It sat on the floor a few feet away, discarded after | watched the video of my own execution. I dragged my heavy body across the carpet. My fingers closed around the cold plastic casing. The screen illuminated the dim room. My background picture used to be a sunset taken from the balcony of his penthouse. I had changed it to a plain black

screen yesterday.

I opened the keypad. My thumb hovered over the speed dial. Number one. Tristan.

If I pressed it, his phone would ring. Would he answer? He was at an executive dinner with the Whitmores. He was likely sitting next to Celeste right now, drinking expensive wine, shaking hands with the men who watched her strike my face. If he saw my name flash across his screen, he would send it straight to voicemail. He already sent Mateo to handle his mess. He washed his hands of

I deleted his number from the screen. My hands shook as I typed three generic digits instead.

“Emergency services,” a calm female voice answered.

“I need an ambulance,” I whispered. My throat felt tight. “I am bleeding. It hurts.”

The hospital smelled of bleach and bitter coffee. The harsh fluorescent lights of the emergency room burned my tired eyes. Nurses moved around me in a blur of blue scrubs, their expressions tight with exhaustion. They placed me on a narrow bed covered with stiff white paper. They asked me questions in rapid succession. Name. Age. Medical history. Emergency contact.

“No one,” I told the nurse holding the tablet. “Leave it blank.”

She gave me a sympathetic glance. The kind of look shelter workers give to abandoned dogs. “We need to run a blood panel, Minerva. Dr. Vargas will be in shortly to examine you.”

They drew blood. They hooked me to an IV. The cold saline rushed into my veins, making me shiver under the thin, scratchy hospital blanket. The sharp, blinding pain in my stomach faded to a deep, throbbing ache, but the terror remained anchored in my chest. I stared at the white ceiling tiles. I counted the tiny holes in the acoustic panels to stop my mind from spiraling into the

dark.

The curtain rings scraped against the metal rod. A tall man in a white coat stepped into the cubicle.

“Minerva Hayes?” he asked, scanning the digital chart in his hands. “I am Dr. Alejandro Vargas.”

“Am I dying?” The question slipped past my lips before I could lock it away.

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Chapter 17 A Secret Heartbeat Inside Me

Dr. Vargas lowered the tablet. He offered a small, reassuring smile. “Your vitals are stable, Minerva. You are experiencing heavy

cramping and spotting. Given your symptoms and the results of your blood panel, we need to perform an ultrasound to check the

source of the bleeding.”

He pulled a machine next to the bed. It featured a small monitor and a complex keyboard. A nurse stepped into the cubicle to assist

him. She lifted the hem of my oversized gray sweater and lowered the waistband of my sweatpants.

“This will feel cold,” Dr. Vargas warned.

He squeezed clear gel onto my lower stomach. I flinched. The gel felt like crushed ice against my skin. He pressed a plastic wand into the gel and moved it around in slow, deliberate circles, pressing down into the ache.

I turned my head away. I focused on the blue fabric of the privacy curtain. I did not want to look at the screen. I did not want to see whatever was broken inside me. The last few hours had taken my marriage, my reputation, and my job. I did not possess the

strength to lose anything else tonight.

“Look at the monitor, Minerva,” Dr. Vargas said.

His voice carried a strange, soft weight. I turned my head back.

The screen displayed a grainy, black-and-white image. It looked like a storm of static. But in the center of the static, a small, dark shape rested inside a circular border. Inside that dark shape, a tiny white pixel flickered.

Dr. Vargas pushed a button on the console. A sound filled the small hospital cubicle, drowning out the hum of the air conditioner.

It was fast. It sounded like the wings of a trapped bird beating against a cage.

“What is that?” I asked. My lungs forgot how to pull in air.

“That is a heartbeat,” Dr. Vargas replied. He pointed a pen at the flickering pixel on the screen. “You are eight weeks pregnant.”

I stared at the screen. Eight weeks. Two months ago, Tristan took me to a secluded cabin on the coast. He rented the entire property under a shell corporation to ensure no one saw us. We spent three days locked inside. He built fires in the hearth. He cooked for me. He held me in the dark and promised me that the hiding would end soon. He planted this life inside me while weaving a web of

beautiful, suffocating lies.

“The bleeding?” I managed to ask. I kept my eyes fixed on the beating heart.

“A subchorionic hematoma,” Dr. Vargas explained. He wiped the cold gel from my stomach with a thick paper towel. “It is a collection of blood between the uterine wall and the gestational sac. It can be caused by extreme physical trauma or severe emotional stress. Your body is under massive duress. The cramping was your system reacting to the shock.”

“But the baby…”

“The baby is viable. The heartbeat is strong.” He pulled his stool closer to the bed. His expression shifted into professional concern. “But this is a severe warning, Minerva. You need rest. You need a calm environment. If the stress continues, you risk a miscarriage. I

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