“I’m pregnant,” I said joyfully to my husband. “So am I,” replied my sister, stepping out of our bedroom.
The words had left my lips before I could stop them, a smile spreading across my face unbidden.
Cyril, standing by the window, went perfectly still. He didn’t turn, but in the glass’s reflection, I saw his shoulders tense.
I had expected embraces, exclamations of delight—anything but this frozen silence.
“So am I,” came Lenora’s quiet voice.
My sister emerged from our bedroom, wearing Cyril’s shirt—the very one he slept in, the one I loved most. She ran a hand through her hair, a gesture so familiar, so domestic, that my vision darkened for a moment.
Flashes of memory burned through my thoughts—things I’d dismissed before. Cyril working late at “meetings,” Lenora dropping by “just to chat,” her eyes darting to her phone. Their shared laughter over private jokes while I stood beside them, an outsider in my own life.
“Len, you have a key, don’t you?” he’d asked once while we were leaving for holiday. “Water the plants, would you? There’s no one else I’d trust.”
And I had smiled, thinking how close we all were.
“What?” I asked, though I’d heard perfectly. My voice sounded wooden, foreign.
“Annie, I can explain,” Cyril finally turned. His face was ashen. “It’s not what you think. It’s… a mistake.”
Lenora met my gaze without flinching. There was no remorse in her eyes—only exhaustion and a stubborn, defiant resolve.
“It’s not a mistake,” she said coolly, eyes locked on Cyril. “Stop lying. At least now.”
He shot her a furious look. “Be quiet!”
I looked from my husband to my sister—the man I’d built a future with for five years, the girl I’d shared childhood secrets with. They stood barely two feet away, yet an abyss yawned between us, swallowing every “we,” every plan, every tenderness, every hope for the child inside me.
“A mistake, then,” I repeated, my lips twisting into a bitter smile. “Do the two of you share one? Or does each of you have your own?”
Cyril stepped toward me, hands outstretched. “Annie, darling, let’s talk. Just… not now. Len, leave.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” she answered flatly, arms crossed. “We’re having a baby. And I won’t let you pretend I don’t exist anymore.”
I stepped back, my spine pressing into the cold wall of the hallway.
“Get out,” I whispered.
“What?”
“Get out. Both of you.”
They didn’t move. My words, which had once carried weight, were now empty.
“Annie, don’t be rash,” Cyril said in that placating tone I despised—the one he used when he wanted me to “be reasonable.” “You’re a smart woman. We’re adults. Yes, I’ve failed you. But now we must think of the children. Our children.”
He stressed the last words, trying to weave us back together, to spin the illusion of a shared future.
“Which ‘our’ children do you mean?” I asked coldly. “The one who’ll grow up with a single mother, or the one born to your mistress?”
Lenora flinched, a quiet sob escaping her.
“Don’t call me that. You don’t understand.”
“Don’t I?” I turned on her, icy rage replacing shock. “Enlighten me. What should I know? That you slept with my husband in my bed? Isn’t that enough?”
“It wasn’t like that!” Her voice hardened. “We love each other. This isn’t just some affair.”
Cyril clutched his head. “Len, I asked you not to—”
“And I’m tired of silence!” she cried. “Tired of being your secret, your mistake to fix! Annie, you’ve always had everything. The perfect husband, the perfect home. And me? Always second best. Just ‘Annie’s sister.'”
Her words dripped with old resentments, and I faltered. She wasn’t defending herself—she was accusing me.
I remembered our mother’s words from childhood: “Annie’s the clever one, Lenora’s the pretty one. Each has her place.” It seemed Lenora had never accepted hers.
“So you decided to take mine?” I asked softly.
“I took what was unclaimed!” she snapped. “He wasn’t happy with you. You just refused to see it.”
I looked at Cyril. He avoided my gaze. And I knew she was right—not about love, but about him letting her believe it, complaining to her, nurturing this twisted bond with his weakness and her envy.
“Fine,” I said, and they tensed at my calm. “Suppose you’re right. What’s your proposal? Shall we all live together? Or draft a schedule?”
Cyril lifted his head. “Stop it. This isn’t productive. I suggest… we live apart for now. I’ll rent Len a flat. I’ll support you both. We need time to think.”
He spoke as if discussing a business deal. Asset division. Risk management.
“So you want me to sit here, pregnant, waiting while you ‘think’ about which of your pregnant women to choose?” I laughed—a harsh, grating sound.
“Annie, you’re overcomplicating things.”
“No, Cyril. You’ve reduced it to something primal. Get out. And take her with you. Collect your things later—when I’m not here.”
I pulled out my phone and dialed. “Hello, security? There are trespassers in my flat. Yes, refusing to leave.”
Lenora glared at me with hatred. Cyril with disbelief. He hadn’t expected this from “good little Annie,” the woman who always understood, always forgave. But that woman had just died.
My call was a bluff—our building had no security, only a drowsy concierge. But they didn’t know that. The word “security” sobered Cyril instantly.
“You’ll regret this, Annie,” he rasped, grabbing Lenora’s arm. “You’re throwing a pregnant woman out. Your own sister.”
“I’m throwing out my husband’s mistress,” I corrected, meeting his gaze. “And you? You’re just a traitor.”
When the door closed behind them, I slid down the wall to the floor. But there were no tears—only hollow emptiness and the ringing rush of adrenaline.
The next day, hell began.
First, my boss called. “Annie, hi. Listen, your husband rang… Cyril. Says he’s worried about your… ah… emotional state due to the pregnancy.”
Ice slithered down my spine. “What else did he say?”
“He asked for leave on your behalf—said you might not be thinking clearly.”
Then I understood. He wasn’t just leaving—he was dismantling me, painting me as unstable, targeting my job, my reputation, my independence.
An hour later, a courier delivered a letter from his solicitor. Thick with legalese, it boiled down to one thing: he was suing for our assets. And not just half.
He claimed the entire flat, insisting he’d bought it with his own funds before marriage, dismissing my contributions to renovations. But the worst came on the last page—a request for a psychiatric evaluation to determine if I could be a “fit mother” to our unborn child.
This was the bottom. He wanted not just our home, but our child, using my pregnancy as a weapon. Something inside me snapped—the thread connecting me to the old Annie, the forgiving one, finally severed.
He expected me to break, to beg. But he’d forgotten who’d sat beside him through sleepless nights building his business, who’d kept his “creative” accounts in a notebook when he couldn’t afford an accountant. I’d been his shadow, his loyal armorer. And he’d mistaken my loyalty for weakness.
I went to the safe we’d bought for “important documents,” entered the code only we knew, and beneath the deeds and marriage certificates, found the thin file he’d asked me to “just keep safe” years ago. “Insurance, Annie,” he’d said then. “You’re my most trusted.”
His blind faith in my devotion had armed me against him.
I called an old friend, Stan, who worked in financial crimes. “Hi, Stan. I’ve got an interesting story about a very successful businessman.”
Stan warned me: an anonymous tip was just the beginning. Investigations took time. But the process had started.
The first blow came six months later: a tax audit. Frozen accounts. Cyril called—I didn’t answer. Lenora texted: “He left me. No money. Help.” I deleted it.
His downfall was slow, like poison. Partners withdrew. No one would buy his business. Once, he called when his card was declined at a restaurant.
“Look what you’ve done, you mad cow!” he screamed. “You’re ruining me!”
