The Husband Who Let His Mistress Curse Our Son

Three weeks after my son's death, I found the blood-stained cloth doll meant to "ward off disaster" with his name stitched on it.

Right there, in the hands of my husband's mistress, who was giggling as she idly toyed with it.

"The psychic said my life force was too weak to keep the baby, and that I needed a substitute to take the curse."

"I only sewed Leo's name into the doll. I never imagined... he would actually get sick and die."

"Declan, do you think Leo traded his life for our baby's?"

Through the crack in the door, the same man who had sobbed until he passed out at the funeral was gently stroking his lover's belly. "He was just unlucky. As long as our baby is safe, that's all that matters."

I turned away, pulled up the invitation for Chief Medical Examiner from the International Criminal Court in The Hague that I had shelved for a month, and hit accept.

......

I stood rooted to the spot. My extremities went numb, the blood in my veins seemingly draining away in an instant.

As a forensic pathologist, I am accustomed to extracting the truth from the smallest of clues.

The heavy cologne Declan had been wearing lately, the stray blonde hair clinging to his shirt collar, and his sudden decision to move into this bachelor pad alone, claiming he "needed space to grieve our son."

The apartment was completely dark, save for the faint, warm halo of a wall sconce spilling through the half-open bedroom door.

"Declan, you're hurting me... be careful. The doctor said the baby isn't stable during the first trimester."

It was Kingsley.

Declan's underling in the precinct's PR department—a blonde whose default expression was one of wide-eyed innocence. At Leo's funeral, she had wept even louder than I, his own mother, did, drawing a crowd of sympathetic colleagues to console her.

Declan's low, gentle voice drifted out, laced with an indulgence I was once so intimately familiar with. "Don't worry, I'll be careful. This is our baby. I'd never let anything hurt him."

"But... Leo just passed away." Kingsley's voice dripped with manufactured hesitation. "Maeve must be heartbroken right now. Isn't this a little cruel of us?"

"Don't bring her up." Declan's tone instantly iced over, heavy with undisguised disgust. "She's as cold-blooded as the corpses in her morgue. When Leo died, she didn't shed a single tear. Just sat there, calmly reading the autopsy report. Sometimes I honestly wonder if Leo was even her son."

As a forensic pathologist forced to examine the body of her own flesh and blood, I had to bite down on my own teeth with every ounce of strength I had just to keep from shattering. Yet, in his eyes, that became the ironclad proof of my apathy.

Leo died from an extremely rare, acute immune system failure. The onset was so rapid that even the best pediatric specialists couldn't do a thing. As a medical professional, I knew it was nothing more than a tragic, random collision of genetics and a virus—not some absurd curse.

But what made it feel like battery acid was eating through my organs was Declan's reaction.

No outrage. No accusations. Instead, he tenderly kissed Kingsley's forehead. "Coincidence or not, all that matters is that you and our baby are safe. Leo... maybe he was just unlucky. Put that doll away before Maeve sees it. Even a woman like her who only worships science would lose her mind if she found it."

I might scoff at curses, but just how completely must a man be stripped of his humanity to treat his own child's death as some sort of sacrificial offering, all to validate his mistress's sick delusion?

Standing there in the dark, the very last shred of warmth I harbored for my husband was pulverized into dust.

I had heard enough. I turned to leave, but my foot accidentally clipped the umbrella stand in the entryway.

"Who's out there?!" Declan charged out, half-dressed. The second his eyes met mine, the color wholly drained from his face.

"Maeve, let me explain, it's not what you think!" Declan stammered in a panic, reaching out to grab my arm.

I sidestepped him.

"Don't touch me," I said, holding his gaze. There was no rage in my voice, only pure, unfiltered disgust.

Kingsley crept out of the bedroom then.

Instinctively shielding her flat stomach, her eyes welled up with rapid, practiced tears. "Maeve, please don't blame Declan. It's all my fault. I just love him too much. And... and what happened to Leo was an accident. You can't take your grief out on us. I'm a mother too. I just wanted to protect my baby..."

"Shut up." I cut her off icily. "Save the performance. I don't believe your stupid curses have the power to kill anyone, but I do believe your own sheer stupidity will eventually destroy you."

Seeing my sheer indifference, Declan's fleeting guilt instantly curdled into defensive anger. "Maeve! Stop being such a vindictive bitch! Kingsley is pregnant—are you trying to drive her over the edge? You work with corpses every day. Have you completely lost the ability to feel like a living human being?!"

The sheer audacity of his logic was stomach-turning. They could commit an act so entirely devoid of basic decency without batting an eye, yet somehow, my words were the problem.

Without another word, I turned and walked out of the apartment.

The blizzard outside had intensified. Icy wind slashed at my face like razor blades, yet I had never felt more lucid in my entire life.

Getting back into my car, I immediately dialed my brother Liam's number.

"Maeve? It's pretty late. Are you okay?" Liam's voice crackled through the speakers, backed by the chaotic hum of a busy precinct.

"Liam, get my lawyer on the phone for me. Also, that Chief Medical Examiner position the ICC in The Hague offered me last month? I'm taking it." My voice was so deadpan, it surprised even me.

"You're sure?" Liam was audibly stunned. "But what about Declan..."

"I'm filing for divorce." I cut him off. "And I want him left with absolutely nothing, his reputation completely destroyed."

I hung up and threw the car into drive. It was past midnight by the time I pulled into the driveway. Pushing the front door open, I was greeted by dead silence—and an empty cat tree.

I frowned. Usually, my Maine Coon, Oreo, would come trotting over to weave between my legs the second he heard my keys in the lock.

"Oreo?" I called out into the dark.

Nothing but silence. A cold, ominous sense of dread began to bleed into my chest.