I Died, He Celebrated Her Fake Baby

On our fifth wedding anniversary, Reginald Dickerson booked every drone in the city for a light display in my honor.

That same night, he walked through our front door with a college girl who looked unsettlingly like me.

The girl's cheeks were flushed. She clutched an ultrasound printout so tightly her knuckles were white.

Reginald slipped off his suit jacket, then knelt down and personally swapped her shoes for my house slippers.

Katherine's pregnant. It's a boy.

My mind went blank. I stared at the girl's stomach, unable to move.

Reginald walked over to me and took my hand as if he had every right to.

Your miscarriage damaged your body. I couldn't bear to put you through another pregnancy, so I had her carry the baby for you.

She'll stay in the guest room. Think of yourself as the big sister. Teach her the rules. Once the baby's born, it'll be registered as yours.

He let out a sigh, his eyes brimming with the kind of tenderness only a man deeply moved by his own generosity could muster.

She means nothing to me beyond obligation. You're the one I love. But for the sake of our family having an heir, I need you to be the bigger person here.

His last word hung in the quiet living room like a blunt-force blow.

Through the fabric of my coat, I squeezed the document I'd just picked up from the hospital: a confirmed diagnosis of late-stage organ failure.

I pulled my hand out of his.

Reginald, surrogacy is illegal. What you're describing is called cheating.

The moment the words left my mouth, Katherine flinched on the couch.

She cradled her still-flat stomach with both hands, teeth chattering. Reggie, is she mad at me? I'm so cold

Reginald's brow creased. He crossed the room in three strides and pulled her into his arms.

His gaze turned cold, settling on the jade pendant I always wore against my chest.

Seven years ago, I'd had a miscarriage. The hemorrhaging nearly killed me.

He had climbed nine hundred and ninety-nine steps in a downpour, kneeling at every one, to beg for that Heartguard Jade from Serenity Abbey so it could protect my life.

Now he held his hand out to me.

Katherine has a weak constitution. She can't handle the cold. Give her your jade to wear for the baby's sake.

I stepped back on instinct, my fingers rising to shield my collarbone.

It's just a piece of jade. You're Mrs. Dickerson. You can't even manage that much generosity?

Reginald closed the distance in a single step, clamped his hand around my wrist, and seized the red cord holding the pendant.

There's nothing wrong with you. Katherine is carrying two lives!

The coarse red cord bit into the back of my neck and cinched tight.

A bone-deep chill crept through me, and the cord burned where it cut into my skin.

A soft snap broke the silence. The cord gave way.

Reginald carried the pendant, still warm from my body, and placed it carefully around Katherine Fox's neck.

Katherine dipped her head, fingers tracing the jade, and the corner of her mouth twitched upward.

Reginald turned to the housekeeper.

Go to my wife's room and move the temperature-controlled medical bed to the guest room. Katherine's pregnancy is causing back pain. She can't sleep on a regular mattress.

The housekeeper froze in place and glanced at me uneasily.

Sir, that bed is for the madam's nerve pain

Move it. Reginald's tone left no room for argument.

I looked at the man standing in front of me.

He was no longer the boy who'd held me with red-rimmed eyes and sworn he only needed me, child or no child.

Inside my pocket, the diagnosis had been crushed beyond recognition.

Every explanation, every plea for sympathy, turned to ash before it could reach my lips.

I unclenched my stiff fingers.

Reginald, if you want a son this badly, why not just give her a widow's seat at the table and be done with it.

His face darkened instantly. He pointed a finger at my nose.

Gloria Dudley, don't push your luck! Tonight you can sleep on the floor and think about what you've done!

He scooped Katherine up and carried her toward the guest room.

I sat alone on the freezing floor where my bed used to be.

The pain radiated outward from my failing organs, sharp and absolute. I curled into myself on the floor, knees drawn tight to my chest.

On the other side of the wall, Reginald's voice drifted through, soft and coaxing, persuading Katherine to take her prenatal vitamins.

Something hot and metallic surged up the back of my throat. Black blood seeped from the corner of my mouth and dripped onto the hardwood floor.

I pulled a tissue from my pocket and wiped the stain away, then took out my phone and dialed a number I'd memorized.

The line connected.

Hello, City Organ Donation Center.

I'd like to sign the full-body organ donation consent form. As soon as possible.

Please have the paperwork delivered today.

After I hung up, I braced one hand against the baseboard and dragged myself to my feet.

My stomach seized, a churning, tearing pain that nearly folded me in half.

I pulled the suitcase out from under the bed and began clearing out everything that was mine, piece by piece.

Clothes. Photos of us together. The written promise Reginald had given me all those years ago.

All of it went into a black trash bag.

After dawn, I took a car out to Southridge Memorial Cemetery in the suburbs.

Seven years ago, I'd been protecting confidential files for Reginald's company when a competitor deliberately ran my car off the road.

My son was induced at six months. He came out as nothing more than a bloody mass of flesh.

Reginald had wept until he passed out. He bought this plot, the one with the best position on the hillside, and swore he would never forget.

But now, halfway up the slope, I heard the grinding roar of an excavator.

The headstone engraved Beloved Son had already been smashed in two.

Workers swung their shovels, heaving dirt out of the ground one scoop at a time.

Reginald stood nearby with a feng shui master in ritual robes and Katherine in a windproof maternity coat.

My breath stopped. I lunged forward and shoved the workers aside.

What are you doing?!

Reginald frowned and pulled Katherine behind him.

The master says this spot sits on the dragon vein of the southern ridge. Best possible position for ensuring healthy offspring.

His tone was as calm as if he were discussing the weather.

To make sure Katherine carries a healthy boy to term, we need to build a blessing shrine for her right here.

I stared at the gaping hole in the earth. My nails bit into my palms.

That is my child!

Katherine peeked out from behind Reginald, her expression timid and doe-eyed.

Ma'am, the dead are gone. A living grandson matters so much more, don't you think?

Besides, yours was stillborn. What's the point of it taking up prime burial ground? Can it carry on the Dickerson family name?

Reginald patted Katherine's shoulder, a small reassuring gesture.

He turned to me. His eyes carried the flat, immovable weight of a man who believed he was being perfectly reasonable.

You already agreed to accept Katherine's child as the legitimate heir. What's the big deal about making room for your new son?

He pointed into the pit.

Toss those scraps of clothing and let's get this done.

A shovel came down hard, flinging a tiny mud-caked baby shoe out of the dirt.

I had sewn that shoe by hand, stitch by stitch, for my son to wear at his one-month celebration.

It tumbled to a stop at my feet, smeared with filthy yellow clay.

The pain in my stomach spiked to a white-hot peak.

I bit down on the tip of my tongue, using that sharper agony to force back the burning behind my eyes.

I did not cry.

I bent down and wiped the worn little shoe clean with my sleeve, careful and thorough, until not a speck of dirt remained.

Then I tucked it gently against my chest.

Reginald.

I looked into his eyes. My voice was so quiet it could have dissolved in the wind.

One day, you will kneel right here and eat this dirt, mouthful by mouthful.

Reginald's face went a livid grayYou're out of your mind!

I didn't spare him another glance. I turned and walked away.

Back to the empty house.

The moment the door clicked shut, the coughing tore out of me.

A mouthful of black blood hit the table, soaking the little baby shoe until it was stained completely red.

I stared at the pool of blood on the floor, calm. Then I pulled open the drawer and took out the two documents I'd prepared.

A divorce agreement.

A forced share-withdrawal notice for the company.

The digital lock on the front door beeped.

Reginald walked in with his arm around Katherine, and the first thing he saw was the withdrawal notice in my hand.

He let go of Katherine, crossed the room in three strides, and snatched the document from my grip.

His eyes skimmed it twice before he ripped it in half and threw the pieces in my face.

Withdrawal? Gloria, do you really have to resort to these childish tactics to threaten me?

He tugged at his tie, his tone leaving no room for discussion.

The company's seventh-anniversary children's line launch is tomorrow. Once it's over, I'll deal with your little tantrum.

The next afternoon. The launch venue.

I stood backstage on legs that could barely hold me.

That commemorative children's collection was my final work, sketched stitch by stitch before my diagnosis, in memory of the child I lost.

Thunderous applause rolled in from the main stage.

Reginald took Katherine's hand and led her into the spotlights.

My design drafts filled the giant screen behind them.

Reginald leaned into the cluster of media microphones, his voice soft and warm.

This collection was inspired by Katherine's journey as a mother-to-be, carrying new life.

Today, we're proud to debut it as our flagship line.

The audience erupted in admiration.

A high-pitched buzz filled my skull, and cold sweat soaked through my back in an instant.

The warning signs of acute organ failure crashed over me like a wave. My heart seized, as though a fist had closed around it and refused to let go.

I braced myself against the wall, fumbling through my bag with shaking hands for the imported emergency medication.

The hidden compartment had been opened.

The bottle was empty.

Nothing left but a few specks of white powder clinging to the glass.

After the launch ended, Reginald brought Katherine backstage.

She was wearing the couture gown originally made for me, the one meant for the lead designer. Her smile was radiant.

I was slumped in a chair, fingers locked around the empty bottle, my vision already blurring at the edges.

Reginald walked over and glanced down at the bottle in my hand.

Katherine said she liked the color of the bottle. The vitamins inside, she just dumped them out to feed some stray cats.

He kicked the bottle aside.

You're perfectly healthy. Why the act? It's one outfit. What's the big deal if Katherine wears it?

This company's going to belong to Katherine's child someday anyway.

His gaze swept over my sweat-drenched clothes with open disgust.

Go home. Don't stand around here looking like a wreck and embarrassing me.

I said nothing.

I looked at the face in front of me, that hollow, faithless face, and a faint laugh slipped out of me.

The smile cracked my dry lips. There was no life in it.

Reginald froze. His brow furrowed deeper.

What are you laughing at?

I didn't answer. I gripped the armrest, pulled myself to my feet, and walked step by step toward the doors, out into the downpour.

Rain hammered against my body, cold enough to cut to the bone.

I took out my phone and opened the last message from my doctor. The final option.

Consent to immediate anti-cancer blood-replacement surgery.

The success rate was negligible. The most likely outcome was dying on the table.

I pressed confirm.

Then I pulled out the SIM card and dropped it into the rushing water of the storm drain.

I sat alone on a bench at the side of the street. The world in front of me had already split into overlapping shadows.

The rain fell harder.

From somewhere in the distance came the shrill wail of an ambulance siren, its red and blue lights tearing through the curtain of rain.

A familiar black Maybach sped past without slowing.

It was Reginald's car.

The wheels cut through a puddle, and a sheet of cold, muddy water splashed across my body.

Consciousness slipped away in pieces.

The ER gurney stopped beside me, and several people in white coats rushed over.

They lifted me onto a stretcher.

Blood poured from between my thighs, soaking the white sheet beneath me red.

The surgical lights overhead seared my eyes shut.

Massive hemorrhage! Late-stage organ failure complications! Blood pressure below 50!

Get the Rh-negative blood from the bank! The last two units in the city came in yesterday. Go, now!

Monitor alarms screamed from every direction.

I lay beneath an oxygen mask, too weak to lift a single finger.

Minutes bled into each other.

Dr. Lambert, the attending physician leading my resuscitation, answered a phone call. The color drained from his face, and his eyes went red.

What do you mean the blood's been taken? That blood is keeping someone alive! Who authorized this?!

The nurses wheeled my bed forward, trying to rush me to the ICU.

At the far end of the corridor, right at the entrance to the hospital's VIP wing.

From a few meters away, I heard that familiar voice.

Katherine Fox sat in a wheelchair, a small Band-Aid on her knee, dabbing at her tears.

Reginald, I just took a little fall. My stomach really hurts

Reginald held her close, his face tight with concern.

Dr. Lambert charged over and seized Reginald by the sleeve.

Mr. Dickerson! You used your connections to commandeer those two units of Rh-negative blood from the bank? That blood was for a critical patient in the ER!

Reginald shook him off, his gaze cold as iron.

I don't care about some critical patient. My privilege exists to protect my family.

He pointed at Katherine's belly.

She's carrying a Dickerson heir. Her stomach hurts, so this blood stays right here. Just in case.

If she loses a single hair on her head, this entire hospital will answer for it!

Dr. Lambert was shaking with rageThis is two lives versus a scraped knee! You'll pay for this!

I lay on the gurney.

Through the cold air, I watched my husband at the end of that corridor, losing his mind over his mistress.

My body temperature was plummeting. Beneath me, blood pooled into a river.

But the moment I heard his voice, something in me went quiet. I had never felt this free in my entire life.

Dr. Lambert ran back to my side, eyes rimmed red, barking orders for a bloodless resuscitation protocol.

Doctor.

I spent the last of my strength pulling the oxygen mask from my face.

My voice was barely a thread, but every word was clear.

Stop the resuscitation. I signed the consent form.

With trembling hands, I pressed a bloody fingerprint onto the electronic tablet the nurse held out.

Do-Not-Resuscitate Consent Form.

Full-Body Organ Donation and Cremation Authorization.

Do it now. Before the organs fail.

I closed my eyes.

The heart monitor flattened into a single, steady line.

A long, piercing wail tore through the entire ER corridor.

At the same time, in the VIP ward.

Reginald was peeling an apple for Katherine, careful and attentive.

Without warning, a tearing pain ripped through his chest, sharp and sourceless.

The paring knife slipped from his hand and clattered against the floor.

Then his phone buzzed.

The screen read City Central Hospital Morgue.

He answered.