Cold Rain, Heavy Bags, Eight Months Pregnant—And the Night My Husband Saw His Upbringing for What It Was

Victoria Halstead stood beneath the porch overhang, perfectly framed, perfectly dry. A camel-colored wool coat hugged her slim figure, the kind of coat that whispered money and permanence. One manicured hand cradled a crystal wine glass; the other rested lightly on the railing. Her posture was relaxed, entertained—as though she were observing a mildly interesting inconvenience rather than a pregnant woman standing ankle-deep in icy rain.

“Victoria, please,” I said, hating how thin my voice sounded. My hand moved instinctively to my stomach. Thirty-four weeks. My ankles were swollen, my balance unreliable, my back aching from the moment I woke each day. “It’s slick. Can we wait for Daniel? He’ll be home soon.”

She tilted her head, studying me the way one studies a flaw in expensive fabric.

“Daniel runs a multinational logistics firm,” she replied smoothly. “He doesn’t come home to a wife who can’t manage basic household responsibilities. And the driver is on break. We respect staff breaks in this family.”

Her lips curved—just barely.

“My own mother carried coal buckets uphill while pregnant,” she added lightly. “It builds strength. Character.”

What she didn’t say—but what settled deep in my chest—was that this was entertainment for her. She had enjoyed it for months now. Ever since Daniel convinced me we should “temporarily” move into the family estate while renovations on our city townhouse were delayed—delays I would later understand were anything but accidental.

Victoria had despised me long before my pregnancy.

She despised that I’d been raised by a single mother.
That I’d paid my way through college managing a café.
That I didn’t know which fork to use at formal dinners and refused to pretend I did.

But most of all, she hated that I was carrying something she couldn’t control.

The heir.

I looked back at the bags. Wine she could have ordered delivered. Milk the driver could have carried earlier. Heavy items chosen deliberately, I realized, not out of necessity—but intention.

I inhaled deeply. Wet leaves. Asphalt. Cold metal.

Just do it, Claire. Don’t give her the satisfaction.

I grabbed the first two bags.

The paper handles sliced into my palms instantly, the weight dragging my shoulders down, my abdominal muscles tightening instinctively to protect the baby. Pain radiated up my arms. Rain plastered my hair to my face, stinging my eyes, but my hands were full—I couldn’t wipe them away.

“See?” Victoria called down. “You’re managing just fine. Mind over matter.”

I took one step.

Then another.

My boots slipped slightly on the incline, my heart lurching violently as panic surged—don’t fall, don’t fall—but I caught myself, my body instinctively curling inward, protecting what mattered most.

One step.
Two steps.
Keep him safe.

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