Drowning the Pregnant Wife

I was nine months pregnant, soaking in the tub, when an anonymous email popped up.

The first attachment was my husband’s medical report. [Severe Azoospermia. 100% Sterile.]

I touched my swollen belly. If Arthur was sterile, whose baby was this?

The second attachment was a news article. [Billionaire's Pregnant Wife Drowns in Master Bath.]

The publication date was tomorrow morning. I thought it was a sick prank.

Then, the bathroom door opened. My husband stood there, loosening his tie.

"You look beautiful tonight," he murmured.

——

"Arthur, please. I'm not feeling well," I choked out, instinctively scrambling backward in the water.

"The contractions… the baby is restless today."

His charming smile vanished.

"Always the saint. Always a damn excuse," he sneered.

He didn't even drop his tailored suit jacket. He stepped directly into the overflowing tub. The water sloshed violently over the rim.

Before I could scream, his large hand clamped around my throat. 

"Do you know how long I've endured this?!" he roared. His spit hit my cheek as he shoved me backward against the porcelain. "Playing the perfect wife while carrying another man's child?!"

"What are you talking about. You're hurting me! Let go!" I thrashed, my wet hands desperately clawing at his wrists.

This was Arthur. The man who kissed my forehead every morning. Why is he looking at me like he wants to tear me apart?

"If you won't give yourself to me, then die with your little mutt."

His eyes were dead. Empty. He shoved my head violently under the surface.

Water flooded my open mouth, burning my sinuses with agonizing fire. My lungs screamed for oxygen. The heavy weight of my nine-month belly dragged me down. I fought with every instinct I had, scratching, kicking, but his weight was immovable. 

The dim lights of the bathroom twisted into a dizzying white blur. My brain misfired in sheer panic, and then—absolute, suffocating darkness.

I shot up from the water, hacking and coughing violently. 

I grabbed my throat. I expected to feel swelling. Crushed cartilage. But there were no bruises. No pain. The bathwater around me was perfectly still. 

My heart hammered against my ribs so hard it bruised. I pressed my hands against my damp face.

Was that a nightmare? But the memory of his thumbs crushing my windpipe felt entirely too real.

I practically threw myself toward the edge of the tub. Sitting next to my towel was the crystal glass of red wine Arthur had handed me ten minutes ago.

I had only taken a single sip. But now, looking closely, I saw a faint ring of undissolved white powder resting at the bottom of the blood-red liquid.

I stared at the glass and flexed my wet fingers. A sluggish, stiff sensation was settling into my joints. It wasn't pregnancy fatigue. I had been drugged. 

My tablet lit up on the vanity. The anonymous email had just arrived in the inbox. 

The breath left my lungs.

The clock had reset？

The heavy glass door swung open.

He stood there again. The loosened tie. The predatory stance. 

"You look breathtaking tonight, Eleanor."

I knew I only had seconds before the drug fully paralyzed my muscles. I couldn't physically fight him. If I panicked, I was dead. 

I forced a soft, trembling smile, playing the obedient, submissive wife.

"Not tonight, honey. The baby is kicking so hard, I have zero energy. Can we take a raincheck?"

I thought compliance would stall him. I was fatally wrong.

"Do you think I'm a fucking idiot, Eleanor?!" He ripped off his tie and crashed into the water, lunging at me. "Are you getting off on playing with me?!"

He grabbed the back of my neck, forcing my face toward the water.

This time, I didn't waste energy clawing at his face. As he shoved me down, I slid my hands under his soaked, clinging shirt, gripping his waist for leverage to push his weight off my belly.

My fingertips brushed against the skin of his lower right back.

I froze. 

Beneath the wet fabric, my nails caught on a patch of violently jagged flesh. The texture was rough, thick, and uneven. 

Cigarette burn scars. A whole cluster of them. 

Under the water, my eyes snapped wide open. The cognitive dissonance was deafening. 

Arthur Sterling was a raging germaphobe. He treated his body like a flawless temple. He didn't have a single blemish on his skin. 

There was only one man in the Sterling family who carried those trashy, violent scars from the underground fighting rings.

His twin brother. Julian.

The degenerate outcast. The man who sat across from me at every family dinner, staring at my chest with a sick, raw obsession. 

Bile rose in my throat, mixing with the bathwater. If Julian was the one breaking into my bathroom to drown me wearing his brother's suits... where the hell was actual Arthur? Did my husband orchestrate my murder?

My fading oxygen gave out. The darkness claimed me for the second time.

I jolted awake, slamming my spine against the hard porcelain.

I didn't care that I was naked and dripping wet. I threw myself over the edge of the tub. My heavy belly completely threw off my balance, but I hit the wet tiles, scrambled to my feet, and threw my entire weight against the heavy frosted-glass door.

I slammed the deadbolt shut.

Moments after I'd received the warning email, the doorknob aggressively twisted from the outside.

"Darling, open the damn door! Why is it locked?!" he barked. The voice was smooth. A chillingly perfect imitation of my husband. 

I backed away until my wet, bare shoulders pressed against the cold mirror. Tremors wrecked through my body. The man on the other side of that door wasn't the father of my child. He was a monster wearing my husband's face. 

I took a deep, ragged breath and screamed at the locked door.

"Get away, Julian!"

The pounding stopped immediately.

The doorknob ceased its twisting. A dead, agonizing silence fell over the hallway.

Then, the assault on the door erupted into pure frenzy.

Something heavy and metallic began striking the glass in a rapid, psychotic rhythm.

The heavy glass pane finally gave way.

Through the jagged, fist-sized fracture, a single, bloodshot eye stared directly at me.

"How did you recognize me?" his real, raspy voice whispered.