The first blow wasn’t what broke me. It wasn’t the sound of the golf club slamming into my shoulder, or the way my body hit the floor while I curled around my four-month-pregnant belly, praying the baby was still alive. It was her. Standing by the stairs, eyes wild, screaming at my husband: “Finish it—that baby isn’t even yours!” In that moment, I realized this wasn’t a fight. It was an execution they’d planned together.

The first blow wasn’t what broke me.
It wasn’t the sound of the golf club slamming into my shoulder, or the way my body hit the floor while I curled around my four-month-pregnant belly, praying the baby was still alive.

It was her.
Standing by the stairs, eyes wild, screaming at my husband:

“Finish it—that baby isn’t even yours!”

In that moment, I realized this wasn’t a fight.
It was an execution they’d planned together.

The first blow came without warning.

Later, Elena would replay that detail again and again, as if by examining it closely enough she could find some sign she’d missed—some twitch of his jaw, some shift in his shoulders, some tiny omen that would have let her prepare.

There was nothing.

One second her husband was standing three feet away, his face an unreadable mask, the next his arms were lifting the golf club in a smooth, practiced arc.

She barely got her arms up before it came down.

Pain exploded through her left shoulder with a sickening, wet crack. The impact knocked her off balance, the room tilting violently as she stumbled backward. Instinct overrode thought: she doubled over, wrapping herself around the four-month swell of her belly, hands shaking as they shielded the small, hard curve that housed her baby.

The air was ripped from her lungs in a gasping sob. Every nerve screamed.

“Andrew—” she choked. “Stop! Please, stop!”

The second hit caught her across the back, lower down this time. It felt like lightning had been shoved into her spine.

She dropped to her knees, carpet fibers burning her palms. Her mind splintered, some shocked part of her still cataloguing absurd details—the framed wedding photo on the mantle slightly crooked, the smell of the pot roast she’d put in the oven hours earlier, the way the evening light from the bay window had turned the room a soft golden just before everything turned red.

Her ribs screamed with every breath.

Every strike burned.

Every time he swung, the world narrowed to the slice of air before the club connected and the dull, crunching impact that followed.

But even as bone protested and vision blurred, the worst of it wasn’t the physical pain.

It was betrayal.

Standing a few steps away, near the staircase, Chloe watched.

Her eyes were wide and feverish, eyeliner smudged, mouth twisted into something Elana had never seen before on her face.

“Kill her,” Chloe screamed. Her voice was hysterical, edged with something that sounded almost like glee. “Finish it! That baby isn’t even yours!”

The words cut deeper than the blows.

They sliced through five years of marriage. Through every whispered “I love you,” every promise, every late-night conversation where Andrew had rested his hand on her stomach and said, “I can’t wait to be a dad.”

They cut through the memory of the fertility clinic. The tests. The quiet devastation. The decision.

They tore open a secret she thought had been buried so deep it might as well have never existed.

That baby isn’t even yours.

The golf club slammed into her side again.

Her world shattered.

Two hours earlier, her life had still looked almost normal—hairline cracks spidering beneath the surface, yes, but the structure standing.

Fragile.

Strained.

Unbroken.

She’d been sitting on the edge of their bed, the cream duvet wrinkled under her as she held Andrew’s phone in both hands.

It wasn’t snooping.

He’d left it there, buzzing, the screen lighting up again and again while he took a shower.

Normally, she ignored it. They trusted each other, she’d told herself when the early suspicions had crept in. Matrimonial trust. The foundation of marriage.

But that day, she’d gotten up from the couch to put away laundry and seen his phone on the dresser, the glass glowing with notification previews.

At first, she’d only meant to flip it over.

Just turn it face down, she’d told herself, so you don’t have to see it.

Then she’d seen the name.

Chloe.

Her heart had stumbled.

Chloe, from Andrew’s office. The one who laughed a little too loudly at his jokes at the Christmas party. The one with the sharp cheekbones and the glass of champagne forever in hand, leaning against his shoulder while they’d posed for photos. The one who always knew details about his work travel before Elena did.

She’d told herself, over and over, that Chloe was a friend.

Now her name glowed on the screen, over and over.

When you get rid of her…

We have to do it before the birth.

It’ll look like an accident.

She’ll probably lose it anyway. So what’s the difference?

Her fingers moved before her mind did.

She picked up the phone.

She told herself she was going to take it to Andrew, that she was going to say, “Your girlfriend is texting,” with a half-laugh, give him the chance to tell her she was wrong.

The phone unlocked with face ID.

Her reflection stared back at her in black glass for a split second—eyes ringed with exhaustion, hair in a messy knot, faded college sweatshirt pulled over maternity leggings.

Then the messages rolled down, an endless thread.

Chloe: She’s going to trap you with that thing.

Andrew: It’s not a trap. It just… happened.

Chloe: You said you didn’t want kids.

Andrew: I didn’t.

Chloe: Then fix it.

There were more.

Screens of more.

Chloe: We have to make sure she doesn’t make it to delivery.

Chloe: It’ll look like an accident.

Chloe: People lose pregnancies all the time. No one will suspect anything.

Andrew: I can’t just—

Chloe: Grow a pair. You said you’d leave her. You said we’d be together. Or were you lying about that too?

Chloe: You know that baby isn’t yours anyway.

The room had gone very still.

The words swam.

Her stomach tightened, her body instinctively curling around the life inside.

On some level, she had known about the affair.

She’d known in the way your body knows a storm is coming before the clouds roll in—the late nights, the unexplained business trips, the way his eyes slid past her at dinner when she talked about the nursery.

She’d ignored it.

She’d told herself it was stress, that the looming promotion he so desperately wanted at the finance firm was consuming him. She’d told herself he’d come back to her once the baby arrived, that fatherhood would anchor him like it had anchored men in all those saccharine parenting books she’d been reading.

But this.

This wasn’t a man who’d strayed and regretted it.

This was a plan.

Her heart hammered against her ribs.

Her fingers went numb.

“Elena?” Andrew’s voice floated from the bathroom, muffled by steam. “Have you seen my gray tie? The one with the diagonal stripes? I have that lunch with the London guys—”

She stood up too fast.

The phone slipped from her hands, thudding onto the duvet.

She stumbled to the bathroom door, her knees weirdly weak.

“Andrew,” she said, voice trembling. “We need to talk.”

He emerged from the steam with a towel around his waist, hair damp, shaving cream still clinging to the angle of his jaw.

He smelled like the cedarwood body wash she’d bought him for Christmas.

He frowned when he saw her face.

“Elena?” he said. “What’s wrong?”

She couldn’t find the words.

So she pointed at the bed.

At his phone.

At the glowing screen.

At the line that had carved itself into her brain.

We have to make sure she doesn’t make it to delivery.

The color drained from his face.

He didn’t rush to explain.

He didn’t stammer out some desperate, messy denial. No babbled, “It’s not what it looks like.” No “We were just talking.”

His expression went flat.

Cold.

He shut the bathroom door behind him with a quiet click, cutting off the humid warmth.

“You went through my phone,” he said.

“Did you think I wouldn’t?” she whispered. “When you left it there, buzzing? When your mistress starts texting about killing me?”

His jaw clenched.

“Don’t be dramatic,” he said. “No one said anything about killing.”

She grabbed the phone.

Shoved it at him.

“I have it right here,” she said, her voice climbing. “You’ve got nothing left to hide, Andrew.”

His eyes flicked to the screen.

Then to her.

“You don’t understand,” he said.

Her laugh came out like a sob.

“Help me,” she said. “Help me understand how the man I married can talk about my death like it’s a line item on a spreadsheet. Let’s see… remodel the bathroom, trade in the Audi, arrange for wife to ‘have an accident.’ Which one goes on which day?”

“Elena,” he said, his own voice rising now. “Keep your voice down. The neighbors—”

“Let them hear!” she shouted. “Let everyone hear what you are.”

He reached for her arm.

She jerked away, stepping back.

“If you come near me,” she said, “I will call the police.”

“You won’t,” he said. “You’re four months pregnant. Your blood pressure is through the roof as it is. You’re not going to risk stressing the baby.”

“How thoughtful of you to worry now,” she hissed.

He sighed.

“Can we talk like adults, please?” he said. “Without screaming? Come downstairs. We’ll make tea. You love tea.”

“You’re not making me anything,” she said. “I’m leaving. Right now.”

She moved toward the bedroom door.

He stepped in front of it.

She went left.

He blocked.

“Elena,” he said, slow and controlled, like he was coaxing someone off a ledge. “You’re being hysterical.”

“Move,” she said.

“No,” he said.

The fight went downhill quickly after that.

Words flung like knives. Accusations, denials, half-truths.

“Yes, I’m sleeping with Chloe, he admitted when she cornered him in the hallway. “Yes, it happened. I’m not proud of it. I was… lonely. You’ve been distant since the pregnancy. Everything is about the baby.”

“You mean everything is about the baby I begged for for three years while you pretended to care,” she said. “Friendly reminder: you were in the room when we signed the IVF papers. You held my hand when they put the embryo in.”

His face twisted.

“You had no right to make that decision,” he said. “To go ahead with a donor without—”

“We decided together,” she said. “We decided after Dr. Chang gave us the results. After she said your sperm count was nonviable. After she said, ‘If you want to carry a pregnancy, we’ll have to use a donor.’”

She watched the words hit him.

He looked like she’d slapped him.

“It wasn’t supposed to be real,” he said. “We talked. We talked.” He rubbed his temples like he could rub away the truth. “We said we’d think about it. You went ahead anyway.”

“You signed the consent forms,” she said. “You sat there and signed where she highlighted. You watched the vial with the donor number go into the dish. You told me you didn’t care if it was yours or not, as long as it was ours. You said biology didn’t matter.”

He laughed then, a harsh, bitter sound.

“What was I supposed to say?” he spat. “‘No thanks, honey, I’d rather never be a father than raise someone else’s kid?’ You were a wreck. You said this was your only chance. I… panicked. I said what you needed to hear.”

“So you lied,” she said.

He didn’t respond.

He didn’t need to.

Chloe’s text echoed in her mind.

You know that baby isn’t even yours anyway.

“Elena,” he said, voice low. “Think about this. If you leave now—if you call the police—the whole world will know. Your family. My family. Our friends. Everyone will know this kid isn’t mine. Is that what you want?”

She hadn’t even told her parents about the donor.

They lived two states away. Her mother sent fruit baskets and criticism. Her father sent occasional “proud of you” texts that she wasn’t sure he meant.

They’d known they were doing IVF. They thought it was with Andrew’s sperm.

Her grandmother, who’d raised her after her parents’ divorce, had known the truth.

“You want a baby,” Grandma Joan had said, spooning sugar into her tea. “He wants a baby. You both sign the papers. That’s all that matters. Biology is just a fancy word people use to sell ancestry kits.”

Joan had died two months later, never meeting the baby she’d helped will into existence.

Now, here, in this echoing hallway, Andrew used her greatest vulnerability as a weapon.

“It’s not your baby,” he said. “Not really. It’s yours. A donor’s. Some stranger.”

“It’s our baby,” she said. “You held the ultrasound picture. You cried, Andrew.”

“I made a mistake,” he said.

And there it was.

Not the affair.

Not the messages.

Not the plan.

Not the idea of leaving her for Chloe.

The mistake, in his mind, was agreeing to raise a child that didn’t carry his DNA.

He stepped closer.

Lightning danced under her skin.

“Move,” she said, her voice shaky.

“No,” he said.

He grabbed her wrist.

The grip was too tight.

“Elena, we need to talk,” he said. “We need to figure this out. You can’t just… run.”

She twisted, shoving his chest with her free hand.

He stumbled back, eyes flashing.

The air changed.

He looked at her like a problem, not a person.

“You want to leave?” he said, his voice cold. “Fine. Leave. But you’re not taking the baby.”

Something in her snapped.

“You’re not taking anything,” she said. “Not the baby. Not the house. Not my name. I don’t care how much money you make. I don’t care how expensive your suits are. I will burn this all down before I let you—”

His slap came out of nowhere.

Her head snapped to the side.

She tasted copper.

She pressed her palm to her cheek, feeling the sting.

“Andrew,” she whispered. “You hit me.”

“You hit me first,” he said, rubbing his shoulder where she’d shoved him. “You’re hysterical. You’re going to hurt yourself. Or the baby. I’m trying to keep you safe.”

“That’s not—” she began.

He turned away, his hand closing around something leaning against the wall by the stairs.

The golf club.

She had a second to register the sun glinting off the metal.

Then it came down.

—

Somebody called 911.

Later, she’d find out it was Mrs. Patel from next door, the retired kindergarten teacher with the sharp hearing and stronger nosy streak.

She’d been watering her plants on her balcony and heard the shouting through Elena and Andrew’s open windows.

Then she’d heard the crash.

Then the screaming.

The 911 recording would be played in court months later.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“I think someone’s being hurt,” Mrs. Patel’s quavering voice would say. “My neighbors. There’s shouting. And… I think something broke. She’s pregnant. Please hurry.”

The dispatcher would ask for the address. Mrs. Patel would give it, then add, “Tell them to be careful. I think he’s… he sounded dangerous.”

She wasn’t wrong.

Down in the living room, the world had narrowed to pain and breath and survival.

The third blow landed across Elena’s ribs as she struggled to crawl toward the front door.

She’d dropped to the floor after the second hit. Her legs wouldn’t cooperate. Her head swam. The carpet was scratchy under her palms.

“Please,” she sobbed. “Please… not the baby…”

Her voice sounded like it belonged to someone else. Thin. Far away.

Somewhere above her, Chloe shrieked.

“Do it!” she screamed. “Finish it! We’re so close, Andrew, don’t wimp out now! That thing isn’t even yours!”

Elena saw her through the blur—a smear of blonde and red lipstick, eyes bright with a kind of manic zeal.

She looked unhinged. Like a zealot watching a sacrifice.

“Shut up, Chloe!” Andrew shouted, panting. Sweat dripped down his temple. “I’m… I’m thinking.”

“Thinking?” she spat. “You weren’t thinking when you agreed to IVF. You weren’t thinking when you let her trap you. Fix it. FIX IT.”

She sounded like a child throwing a tantrum.

A very dangerous child.

“Elena,” Andrew said, his voice shaking now. “Just… stop moving. Stop trying to get up. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“You’re hurting me,” she whispered.

Blood pooled under her shoulder.

She could feel it, warm and sticky, seeping through her shirt.

Her back screamed.

Her stomach…

She dared a look down.

There was no blood there.

The curve of her belly still rose, a small hill under her hand.

The baby kicked weakly, as if saying, I’m here. I’m trying.

“Andrew,” she said, tears streaming. “Please. This is our baby. You wanted this. You came to every appointment. You painted the nursery. Remember?”

His face twisted.

“You never gave me a choice,” he said.

He lifted the club again.

In that split second, time telescoped.

She saw, with awful clarity, all the paths her life could have taken.

If she hadn’t gone to law school like Catherine wanted, maybe she’d never have met Andrew at that alumni networking event.

If she hadn’t ignored the first late night at the office. The first lipstick smear on his collar. The first whiff of Chanel No. 5 on his suit.

If she’d called her mother when the IVF tests came back instead of hiding in the bathroom for three hours sobbing.

If she’d told someone—anyone—about the first time he’d grabbed her arm too hard in an argument, leaving finger-shaped bruises.

Maybe she would have left sooner.

Maybe she and the baby wouldn’t be on the floor now, staring up at a man who used to be her safe place, now wielding a club.

The front door burst open.

“Police!” a voice bellowed. “Drop it! DROP IT!”

The sound split the air.

Blue and red light strobed against the walls from the street, dancing shadows.

Andrew froze.

The club hovered mid-air.

Two officers exploded into the room, guns drawn, faces set.

“Drop the weapon!” one shouted again. “Now!”

Chloe screamed, this time in outrage.

“You idiots!” she shrieked. “This is our house! You can’t be here! You can’t—”

“On your knees!” the other officer barked at her. “Hands on your head!”

Andrew’s hand trembled.

The club clattered to the floor.

Elena let out a sob that tasted like relief and grief and everything in between.

The world blurred into staccato images.

Hands on her shoulder, gentle this time.

“Ma’am, can you hear me? Ma’am, where are you hurt?”

Sirens outside.

Chloe wailing as zip ties clicked around her wrists.

Andrew’s voice, distant and muffled, saying, “It’s not what it looks like. She attacked me.”

Her stomach, someone’s gloved hands pressing there, saying, “We’ve got a pregnant victim here! Estimated sixteen weeks. Possible abdominal trauma.”

The ceiling.

White.

Speckled.

Then darkness.

—

She woke up to beeping.

The sound was steady, rhythmic, oddly comforting.

For a second, she thought she was in bed and someone’s alarm was going off.

Then she tried to move.

Pain flared in her shoulder.

Her eyelids felt like sandpaper as she forced them open.

The world came into focus in bits.

White ceiling tiles.

A curtain.

A monitor displaying her heart rate.

A plastic bracelet around her wrist with her name and a bar code.

She was in a hospital.

“Hey there,” a soft voice said to her right. “Don’t try to move too fast. You took a beating.”

She turned her head.

A nurse in light blue scrubs stood beside the bed, a chart in hand. Her badge said “LAUREN RN.”

“What…” Elena’s voice cracked. “What happened?”

Lauren’s gaze softened.

“You were brought in by ambulance,” she said. “The EMTs said you were assaulted in your home. Multiple contusions, fracture of the left scapula, three cracked ribs. You were unconscious when you arrived, but you’ve been stable for the past twelve hours.”

Twelve hours.

Her brain scrambled for the thing that mattered most.

“The baby,” she said, panic surging.

Her hands flew to her stomach.

A distinct, hard curve pushed back against her fingers.

The nurse smiled gently.

“Your baby is hanging in there,” she said. “We ran an ultrasound. No sign of placental abruption. Heart rate is within normal limits for sixteen weeks. OB’s keeping a close eye. You’ll be on bed rest for a bit, but… your baby’s a fighter.”

Elena’s eyes flooded with tears.

She hadn’t realized she’d been holding the breath that now whooshed out of her.

“How…?” she whispered. “How is that possible?”

“Body’s weird,” Lauren said. “Sometimes it takes damage and says, ‘Not today.’”

Elena let out a shaky laugh-sob.

A knock sounded softly on the door frame.

A woman stepped in writing something on a notepad.

She wore plain slacks and a blouse, her hair in a low ponytail. No white coat. A badge clipped to her waistband read “Detective Maria Santos.”

“Elena Carter?” she said. Her voice was calm, even.

Carter.

Hearing her maiden name knocked something loose.

No Simmons.

Just Carter.

“Yes,” Elena said.

“I’m Detective Santos with the assault unit,” she replied. “I’m sorry to bother you when you’re recovering, but… when you’re ready, I’d like to ask you some questions. About what happened at your house.”

Elena’s heart kicked.

Her mind flashed images.

The phone.

The messages.

The club.

Chloe’s scream.

The nurse squeezed her hand.

“You can say no,” Lauren said softly. “Or ask her to come back later. You’re not obligated to do anything right now.”

“I want to,” Elena said, surprising herself. Her voice was steadier now. “I want to… get this over with.”

“Okay,” Santos said. She pulled a chair close to the bed and sat. “I’ll be brief, and we can always stop if you feel too tired or overwhelmed.”

She clicked her pen.

“Can you tell me what led up to the assault?” Santos asked.

Elena took a breath.

“I saw his phone,” she said.

She told the story.

Halting at first. Then with growing clarity.

The messages. The accusation that the baby wasn’t his. The IVF. The donor. The fight. The golf club.

Santos wrote notes quickly, her hand moving in clean, precise strokes.

“Did your husband ever hit you before?” she asked.

Elena hesitated.

“No,” she said. Then, “He grabbed me. Sometimes. Too hard. And he shouted. A lot. But he never… with a weapon. Never like that.”

“Any threats before?” Santos asked. “Verbalizing intent to harm you? Or the baby?”

“Elena thought of Chloe’s texts.

We have to make sure she doesn’t make it to delivery.

It’ll look like an accident.

“Not directly,” Elena said. “He was just… cold. Distant. And Chloe… she… suggested things.”

“We pulled text records from your husband’s phone,” Santos said. “We have a warrant. There are messages between him and a woman named Chloe Harrington that… suggest premeditation. That’s good evidence. For us. For you.”

Elena stared at the detective.

“You… believe me?” she whispered.

It came out small, vulnerable.

Santos’s gaze lifted from her notes.

“I do,” she said. “You’re not the first woman I’ve seen in this bed with bruises and a story like this. Most of them never had proof. You do. That’s going to make a big difference in how this plays out.”

“How is he?” Elena asked. “Andrew. Is he…?”

“He’s in custody,” Santos said. “Charged with aggravated assault, domestic violence, and fetal homicide attempt. The DA may add conspiracy to commit murder once we fully evaluate the messages.”

“And Chloe?” Elena asked.

“In custody,” Santos said. “On suspicion of solicitation and conspiracy. She’s already singing, trying to cut a deal. Says it was all his idea. That she just ‘vented.’”

Of course she was saying that.

Elena’s mind flicked back to the scene in the living room.

Chloe’s shrill voice.

Finish it. That baby isn’t even yours.

“She told him that,” Elena whispered. “That the baby wasn’t his. She kept pushing that. Over and over.”

Santos tapped her pen against the pad.

“Is it?” she asked, blunt.

Elena took a breath.

“Yes,” she said. “Biologically, it’s not his. We used a donor. He knew that. He agreed. He signed the papers. He came to every appointment. He chose the donor profile with me—the one who liked jazz and spoke three languages and wanted to be an engineer.”

Santos wrote something down.

“He’s going to try to use that,” she said. “To paint you as manipulative. As someone who lied about paternity. It’s going to get ugly in court.”

“I know,” Elena said. “I’ve lived with his ugliness for years.”

Her voice trembled.

“I’m done hiding it.”

—

Hospital time stretches and jerks.

Hours vanish while you sleep, then minutes crawl while you stare at the ceiling.

Elena’s days became a loop of vital checks, ultrasounds, OB consults, and Lauren’s soothing chatter.

At night, when the ward quieted, the weight of it all sat on her chest.

The baby—her baby—rolled under her hand, reminding her constantly that her body had not given up, even when everything else had.

She cried.

Not the silent, dignified tears she’d allowed herself in the past when Andrew’s words had cut too deep.

Ugly, hiccuping sobs that left her eyes swollen and her throat raw.

Lauren held her hand once, on the third night, when it got particularly bad.

“It hurts now,” she said. “It’s supposed to. But it won’t always hurt this much.”

“It feels like it will,” Elena said.

“It won’t,” Lauren said. “You’ll scar. The scars will itch when the weather changes. But you’ll breathe again. And your baby… your baby will grow up knowing what strength looks like.”

“You sound like you’ve done this before,” Elena said, managing a small smile.

“It’s not my first rodeo,” Lauren said. “I have a teenage daughter. Her father put me through hell. Different flavor, same menu. I got out. You will too.”

Those words lodged somewhere inside.

Not as a promise.

As a possibility.

Detective Santos came back with updates.

The DA’s office was taking the case seriously. Because of the texts. Because of her injuries. Because of the baby.

“She’s… unusually aggressive with this one,” Santos said. “Says she’s tired of reading headlines about women who didn’t make it. She wants this to be an example.”

Elena latched onto that.

“Good,” she said. “Make him an example.”

She gave her statement again. And again. For the DA. For the independent victim advocate. For the court-appointed evaluator.

Each time, it got slightly easier.

Less like ripping off a scab.

More like reading from a script.

—

The first time Elena saw Andrew again, he was on a screen.

She’d been released from the hospital on strict bed rest orders and moved temporarily into a small apartment in her cousin’s building, close to the courthouse, away from the townhouse where the walls still echoed with the sound of club on bone.

She watched the arraignment hearing on a livestream.

He wore an orange jumpsuit over a white T-shirt. His hair was messy. There was stubble on his face.

He looked smaller.

Less like the polished man in bespoke suits.

More like… anyone.

“Mr. Carter,” the judge said, “you’ve been charged with attempted second-degree murder, aggravated assault with a deadly weapon, domestic violence, and attempted fetal homicide. Do you understand these charges?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Andrew said.

His voice was tight.

“Bail is denied,” the judge said. “You are considered a danger to the victim and community at this time.”

Chloe’s hearing happened right after.

She cried in the courtroom. Loudly. Dramatically. Her mascara ran.

She was released on bail.

“Elena needs to watch her back,” Lauren said, when she came to visit. “Women like Chloe, they’ll do anything to avoid taking responsibility.”

“I’m not going anywhere without someone with me,” Elena said. “Doctor’s orders, anyway.”

She had a walker for the first week. Then a cane.

Her shoulder slowly regained range of motion.

Her ribs knitted.

Her belly grew.

The baby kicked.

Life, stubborn, continued.

—

The trial was set for after the baby’s due date.

The DA wanted to ensure both Elena and the child were physically strong enough for the process.

“Trials are marathons, not sprints,” Santos said. “You’ll be exhausted. You’ll hear things you don’t want to hear. They’ll drag your IVF, your sex life, your marriage through the mud. You need to be ready.”

“I’ve lived in mud,” Elena said. “I know the smell.”

Still, she prepared.

She met with the prosecutor, a wiry woman in her forties named Denise Harper who spoke fast and thought faster.

She went through their strategy.

“We’re going to lean hard on premeditation,” Harper said. “Chloe’s texts. The timeline. The fact that he picked up a weapon and continued to strike even after you were down.”

“We’re not going to let them frame this as a ‘mutual argument’ or a ‘heat of the moment’ thing. They planned this. Maybe not down to the hour. But in broad strokes, they did.”

“And the baby?” Elena asked, her hand resting on Lily’s head where she lay sleeping in her bassinet.

Her daughter had come six weeks early.

Stress-induced pre-term labor, the OB had said.

But strong.

She’d spent two weeks in the NICU, tiny and angry, her lungs assisted by machines, her cries surprisingly robust.

Elena had watched her through plastic, wires and tubes connecting her to life.

Now Lily was home, chubby cheeks and a fierce grip that latched onto Elena’s finger like she never intended to let go.

“The fetal homicide charge is tricky,” Harper admitted. “Because the baby survived. Which, thank God. But legally, we can still use the attempt. It shows intent. Most jurors go very still when they hear you hit a pregnant woman.”

“Chloe’s lawyer is going to argue she was just venting,” Santos added. “That she was all talk.”

“Talk leads to action,” Elena said. “In my house, it did.”

She looked down at Lily, at the way her chest rose and fell, at the way her little fists curled and uncurled.

“She’s not a mistake,” Elena said quietly. “She’s the best thing I’ve ever done. If they try to use the donor against me…”

“We’ll be ready,” Harper said.

They were.

On the first day of trial, Elena walked into the courtroom on her own two feet.

The scar on her shoulder ached under her blouse. Her ribs twinged when she drew a deep breath.

Lily stayed home with Lauren—who’d become more than a nurse, more than a friend. She was family now.

The courtroom looked different from the one in her nightmares.

More light.

Still the same stale coffee smell.

Andrew sat at the defense table, this time in a navy suit. The county provided it. It didn’t fit right.

He had a new lawyer—public defender. He hadn’t been able to afford someone like Garrison.

Chloe sat behind him, free on bail, her hair tied back, makeup minimal. She looked tired. Less like the manic sprite of that night. More like a woman who’d burned all her adrenaline and was running on fumes and fear.

Elena took the stand on the second day.

She swore to tell the truth.

She did.

She told the story again.

The waiting.

The phone.

The messages.

The IVF.

The fight.

The club.

Chloe’s scream.

Every time the prosecutor’s questions brushed up against the fertility clinic, the defense leaned in, smelling an opening.

“Ms. Carter,” Andrew’s lawyer said on cross, “you admit that you became pregnant with this child using a donor sperm, correct?”

“Yes,” Elena said.

“And that you did not clearly communicate to my client that the child would not be genetically related to him?”

“That’s not true,” she said. “We had multiple conversations. We sat in Dr. Chang’s office. She explained it would be donor. He agreed. He signed the consent forms.”

“You expect the court to believe my client was in a sound mental state when he agreed to that?” the lawyer asked, eyebrows raised. “That a man expecting to become a father would willingly agree to raise someone else’s child?”

“He wanted a family,” Elena said. “Or he said he did. I wanted a family. Biologically, the baby isn’t his. In every other way that matters, she was supposed to be ours.”

“Until he was pushed to his breaking point by your deception,” the lawyer pounced. “You admit you did not tell his parents. You admit you kept this from your social circle. You admit—”

“I admit I was ashamed,” she said.

The courtroom hushed.

“Not of the baby,” she added quickly. “Of the judgment. Of the stigma. Of people like you, who think biology is the be-all and end-all of parenthood. I was afraid you’d say exactly what you’re saying now—that she was less worthy. Less legitimate. That’s why I didn’t tell people. That’s why he knew it was a sore spot. That’s why he used it.”

The lawyer stiffened.

“Objection,” he said weakly. “Non-responsive.”

“Overruled,” the judge said. “She can finish her answer.”

Elena looked out at the courtroom—not at Andrew, but at the faces in the gallery.

At a young woman in the back row clutching a tissue. At an older man with his arm around her. At a bored-looking court reporter who suddenly looked less bored.

“You want to make this trial about my uterus and his ego,” she said. “It’s not. It’s about violence. It’s about a man picking up a weapon and hitting a pregnant woman until she blacked out. It’s about a mistress texting ‘it’ll look like an accident’ and ‘finish it.’ It’s about a neighbor having to call 911 because the screams coming from our house sounded like someone was dying.”

She swallowed.

“You can call my baby ‘not his’ all you want,” she said. “It doesn’t change what he did. It doesn’t change what she did.”

Silence fell.

Even the judge looked moved.

In the third week of trial, Harper called Dr. Chang to the stand.

She was the fertility specialist who’d overseen their IVF.

She was composed, precise, impeccably professional.

“Dr. Chang,” Harper said. “Did you meet with both Elena and Andrew Carter prior to the IVF procedure?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Did you explain to them that, due to Mr. Carter’s infertility, donor sperm would be necessary?”

“Yes.”

“Did Mr. Carter understand this?”

“He asked questions,” Dr. Chang said. “We answered. We discussed options. He signed the consent forms.”

She lifted a file.

“These are the forms,” she said. “With his signature.”

Harper submitted them into evidence.

She also produced a video.

“As part of our protocol,” Dr. Chang explained, “we record a brief consent from both partners on the day of transfer. It protects everyone involved.”

The video played on a screen.

There they were.

A younger version of Elena and Andrew, sitting side by side in a clinic office.

Elena’s eyes were red, but she was smiling.

Andrew was holding her hand.

“Do you understand that the sperm used in this procedure is from an anonymous donor?” an off-camera voice (Dr. Chang’s) asked.

Andrew looked at the camera.

“Yes,” he said. “We understand. We… want a baby. This is how we get there. It doesn’t matter whose… I mean, biologically. It’s ours.”

The defense visibly sank.

Their argument—that Elena had tricked him, had lied—crumbled.

He had consented.

On camera.

That video.

That one line—It doesn’t matter whose… I mean, biologically. It’s ours—played more than once.

In the jury’s heads.

In the closing arguments.

In Elena’s mind.

It was the pivot around which the trial spun.

In that moment, the narrative shifted from “man pushed too far by deceit” to “man who agreed and then decided, later, that agreement could be used as an excuse for violence.”

Harper hammered it home.

“In 2019,” she began her closing, “Andrew Carter sat in a doctor’s office, held his wife’s hand, and said biology didn’t matter as long as they had a baby. In 2023, faced with the reality of that baby, of the responsibility, of the impending permanence, he decided it suddenly mattered very much that biology wasn’t on his side.”

She took a few steps toward the jury box.

“So what did he do?” she asked. “Did he go to therapy? Did he talk to his wife? Did he examine his own insecurities? No. He had an affair. He and his mistress texted about making sure Elena ‘didn’t make it to delivery.’ They discussed how they could make it ‘look like an accident.’ That’s not heat of the moment. That’s cold planning.”

She pointed at him.

“And when Elena found those messages and confronted him,” she said, “he didn’t back down. He didn’t apologize. He closed the door, picked up a golf club, and hit her. Again. And again. And again. While she pleaded for their baby’s life.”

She turned back to the jurors.

“The defense wants you to believe he’s the victim here,” she said. “That his hurt feelings about donor sperm somehow justify smashing a pregnant woman’s bones. They want you to see her as manipulative, unstable. They want you to see him as confused, overwhelmed. I want you to see the truth.”

She gestured to the evidence board.

“The truth is in the messages. The truth is in the medical reports. The truth is in that video, where he consented. The truth is in the bruises on Elena’s body. The truth is in the NICU records showing Lily came six weeks early because of the trauma her mother’s body endured.”

She paused.

“You don’t get to change your mind about consent after the fact because your ego can’t handle it,” she said. “You don’t get to beat someone half to death and then say, ‘She made me do it.’ Not in this courtroom. Not in this city.”

Harper’s voice softened.

“Convict him,” she said. “Not just for Elena. Not just for Lily. For every woman who has been told she was crazy when she said she was in danger. For every baby who never got to reach their due date because a man decided their lives were less important than his pride.”

The jury deliberated for seven hours.

Elena couldn’t sit in the waiting room.

She walked.

Out the courthouse doors. Around the block. Down to the coffee shop. Back again.

Lauren walked with her, pushing Lily in the stroller.

Detective Santos joined them, coffee in hand.

“You did good,” she said.

“I don’t feel good,” Elena said.

“Justice rarely feels like good,” Santos replied. “It feels like less bad.”

When the bailiff called them back in, Elena’s knees went weak.

She sat in the same seat she’d occupied at the start, the same scarred oak under her fingers, the same stale coffee odor filling her nose.

The foreperson stood.

“On the charge of attempted second-degree murder,” he read, “we find the defendant, Andrew Carter, guilty.”

Her heart hammered.

“On the charge of aggravated assault with a deadly weapon, we find the defendant guilty.”

Her fingers dug into the bench.

“On the charge of attempted fetal homicide, we find the defendant guilty.”

The room spun.

Chloe’s verdict came right after.

“On the charge of solicitation to commit murder, we find the defendant, Chloe Harrington, guilty.”

Harper squeezed Elena’s shoulder.

Andrew’s head dropped forward.

Chloe burst into tears.

Sentencing came a month later.

Andrew got twenty years.

Chloe got ten.

The judge was stern.

“It is this court’s hope,” he said, “that you reflect on the fact that your actions nearly ended two lives. There is no excuse. There is no justification. There is only accountability.”

Elena didn’t cry.

She’d done enough of that.

She held Lily tighter when Andrew was led away.

He didn’t look back at them.

Good, she thought.

He’d lost the right.

—

Three years later, the scars had faded.

Not gone. Faded.

The one on her shoulder was a pale, smooth line she could trace with her finger absentmindedly when she thought too hard.

Her ribs ached sometimes when the weather changed.

The memory of the club came back in flashes when she heard golf on TV.

But her days were no longer defined by that night.

She lived in a small house now on a quiet street with big trees and kids’ bikes scattered along the sidewalks.

She taught art at a community center three evenings a week.

She held group therapy sessions for women leaving abusive relationships on Saturdays, something she’d started after her own therapist suggested turning pain into purpose.

On weekday mornings, she walked Lily to preschool.

Lily was three now. She had Elena’s dark hair and some anonymous donor’s hazel eyes. She was loud and stubborn and insisted on sleeping with Lulu, the stuffed elephant Elena had bought her when she came home from the NICU, every night.

One morning in May, as they walked, Lily hopped along, her backpack bouncing.

“Mommy,” she said. “Is my daddy in heaven?”

Elena’s stomach tightened.

She’d been expecting this question.

She’d prepared for it.

“No, baby,” she said. “Your daddy is in a place where people go when they hurt others. It’s called prison.”

Lily frowned.

“Is he sad?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Elena said. “But I know we’re safe. And that’s what matters.”

“Do I have another daddy?” Lily asked. “Like… extra?”

Elena thought of the donor. Of the profile they’d picked. “Engineer, jazz lover, likes to hike, wants to help families.”

She thought of the decision she and Andrew had made then. Of the betrayal that came later.

“Yes,” she said. “You have another dad. He helped me have you. He doesn’t know you. But you know what? You have so many people who love you. Me. Aunt Lauren. Detective Maria. Miss Denise. People who chose you. That counts, too.”

Lily considered this.

“Okay,” she said. “Can I have a popsicle after school?”

Elena laughed.

“Yes,” she said. “You can have a popsicle after school.”

The question passed.

The trauma didn’t define them.

They were more than what had been done to them.

More than DNA. More than wounds.

They were a small, fierce family built on the opposite of what Andrew had offered: honesty, respect, safety.

That night, after Lily was asleep, Elena sat at the kitchen table with a cup of tea.

The baby monitor hummed softly beside her.

She picked up her sketchbook.

For a long time after the attack, she hadn’t been able to paint.

Every brush stroke felt like an invitation to remember.

Now, it felt like something else.

She sketched Lily’s face.

The way her nose wrinkled when she laughed.

The way her hair always escaped its ponytail.

She added a shadow behind them both—not looming, not threatening. Just there. A thing that existed. Acknowledged.

Then she drew a line between them.

Not severing.

Connecting.

Her phone buzzed.

A message from Lauren.

Group tomorrow at ten. Don’t forget the muffins. The new girl loves blueberry.

Elena smiled.

She typed back.

Wouldn’t dream of it.

Then she turned back to the sketch and added one more thing: her own hand, steady, holding Lily’s.

Her scars itched, just a little.

It was supposed to.

They were reminders.

Not of what had been lost.

Of what had been survived.

THE END