My CEO Husband Cheated While I Carried His Child

Chapter 1

At nine months pregnant, my world shattered with a single email—a bank statement revealing monthly transfers of $30,000 from my husband, Ethan Caldwell, to the same woman. The payments had started exactly two years ago, the same month we lost our first child.

Then, as if fate were mocking me, my phone chimed—a friend request from her.

"The lucky girl who gets $30K in spending money every month," the note read.

A cold, eerie calm settled over me. My fingers hovered over the screen before I clicked accept.

The first message appeared instantly:

"Did you see the statement?"

I ignored it, scrolling straight to her profile. The earliest post was dated two years ago—April 21. A photo of her leaning against a man’s shoulder, her hand draped possessively over him, a massive diamond ring glinting on her finger.

"Best birthday gift ever, babe!"

Though only his back was visible, I knew.

It was Ethan.

My husband.

Wearing the shirt I’d bought him on a business trip—the one with the embroidered collar.

April 21. The day I lay on a cold operating table, losing our baby, while my "busy-at-work" husband celebrated another woman’s birthday.

The irony was a knife twisting in my chest.

My hands shook as I scrolled further. Since that day, she had flaunted designer bags, jewelry, vacations—all identical to mine. Except for one thing.

A jasmine-scented perfume.

Then I saw it—her pinned post.

An ultrasound.

She was pregnant.

My phone clattered to the floor. Heart pounding, I lunged for the laundry basket, digging through crumpled clothes until I found Ethan’s shirt from last night.

I lifted it to my nose.

Jasmine.

I never wear perfume.

When I didn’t reply, the messages came faster—photos, videos, flooding in. I clutched my belly, sinking onto the couch, struggling to breathe.

I forced myself to look.

The woman—Lila—was young, vibrant, her ponytail bouncing as she laughed. There were pictures of her and Ethan: rowing on a lake, snowball fights, tucking a maple leaf into her hair. A love story captured in seasons.

With trembling fingers, I opened a video.

Ethan stood by the ocean, his voice tender as he murmured, "My Selena."

"Do you love me?" she whispered.

My husband of seven years—the father of my unborn child—smiled with a warmth I hadn’t seen in years.

"Always, Lila."

I replayed it, tears blurring my vision as dusk painted the room in shadows.

The front door opened.

"Sophia?" Ethan’s voice was soft, laced with concern. "Why are you sitting in the dark? You could’ve fallen."

The lights flicked on. I wiped my face quickly as he knelt before me, taking my hands.

"Why are you crying?" He kissed my belly. "Who upset my girls?"

As he leaned in, the scent of jasmine clung to him.

"Where were you?" I asked, forcing steadiness into my voice.

"Late at the office. Why?" He shrugged, as if it were nothing.

Liar.

You were with Lila. She craved those dumplings from East Willow, and you drove an hour across town because they don’t deliver. She posted the whole thing.

I smiled faintly, squeezing his hand. "Actually... I’ve been craving those dumplings too."

The baby kicked sharply, as if sensing my pain.

"Could you get me some?"

Annoyance flashed across his face. He pulled away. "They’re not even that good. And you’re too far along—you shouldn’t eat greasy food."

Standing, he sighed. "For our son’s sake, just wait, okay?"

Without another word, he muttered, "I’m showering. Call your mom if you’re hungry."

The bathroom door clicked shut.

Tears spilled over as I cradled my belly.

"Sweetheart," I whispered, "it’s just you and me now."