Chapter 2: The Pregnant Mistress

Everyone in Maple Heights knew Ethan Caldwell didn’t love me. My name was their favorite subject—grocery lines, nail salons, over lattes and mimosas. My life was just another soap opera for their amusement, set among manicured lawns and stately homes.

Even after our engagement, women came and went in Ethan’s orbit. My mailbox overflowed with invites to luncheons and galas—never for Ethan. People watched to see how long I’d last, as if I was just another scandal waiting to happen. Sometimes, I barely recognized the woman I’d become, reflected in shop windows.

So when Ethan’s girlfriend crashed my birthday, every eye in the room turned to me and her. The tension was thick enough to slice with a butter knife. Champagne flutes froze midair, laughter died on painted lips, and some guests leaned forward, hungry for drama.

The banquet hall fell silent. The only sounds were the clink of ice in glasses and the hum of the A/C. Someone near the door cleared their throat.

Ethan’s assistant stepped up, eyes darting between me and the floor. “Lauren, sir met this lady when he stepped out just now. He asked me to bring her to you and… let you handle it.”

That phrase—“let you handle it”—was Maple Heights code for “clean up Ethan’s mess and smile for the neighbors.” The town’s older ladies had made it a running joke.

I pressed my lips together and approached the woman, heart thudding but face calm. She shrank back, hands protectively covering her barely-there belly. Her voice shook: “Lauren, I’m pregnant.”

You could hear the desperation—like this was her last hope. “I know you and Mr. Caldwell are only engaged, so I’m asking you to step aside and let us be together.”

Hearing “Lauren” instead of “Mrs. Caldwell” or “Ethan’s fiancée” hit me hard. I couldn’t remember the last time someone used my real name. It stung, a reminder of who I’d been.

I met her eyes. “You want to be Mrs. Caldwell, is that it?”

She shook her head, tears pooling. “No, Lauren. I just don’t want my child to be born without a father.”

The banquet hall erupted in whispers—a gust of gossip, some mocking, some sympathetic, most just hungry for blood. My chest tightened, but I stood taller, refusing to let their judgment break me.

She was the first to come to me with a pregnant belly, clutching her purse so tightly her knuckles turned white. This wasn’t her victory lap, either.

I took off the gold bracelet Ethan had once fastened on my wrist. The metal was still warm. I hesitated, the click of the clasp echoing. Under every astonished gaze, I slipped the bracelet onto her slender arm.

She gasped, wide-eyed, as if the whole scene was some twisted reality show. “Mm, it fits perfectly.”

My hands were shaking. “Then let me congratulate you and Mr. Caldwell in advance. Congratulations.” The word dropped like a stone in a pond—ripples of shock, disbelief, and a bittersweet sense of closure.