Ethan’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. He leaned on the counter like we were in a commercial—perfect kitchen, perfect couple, perfect baby on the way. But my instincts were screaming.
“Babe, come on,” he said, tapping the rim of the glass. “It’s just something the nutritionist recommended.”
I set the milk down with exaggerated care. “You hired a nutritionist now? When?”
He shrugged. “I’m trying to take care of you. Of us.”
Marisol stood by the stove, frozen mid-wipe. Her lips moved again, barely a breath: Don’t. Her eyes flicked to the trash can and then back to me.
My phone buzzed in my palm.
Unknown Number: If he offers milk again, don’t drink. Check the trash. He’s not who you think.
My mouth went dry. I kept my voice light. “I’m nauseous. Can you grab me crackers first?”
Ethan’s jaw tightened for one second before he softened it into a smile. “Sure.”
The second he turned, I waddled to the trash can—slow enough not to draw attention, fast enough that my heart slammed against my ribs. I pushed aside paper towels and cling wrap and found what Marisol had been pointing to: a torn foil blister pack and a small folded pharmacy leaflet.
I didn’t need medical school to recognize the word printed in bold:
MISOPROSTOL.
My hands went cold. I’d seen it mentioned in pregnancy forums—warnings, side effects, stories women whispered about when something “just happened.”
I looked up. Marisol’s face was white.
“What is that?” I mouthed.
She swallowed hard. “I saw him… last night. Crushing something.”
Behind me, a drawer shut. Ethan’s footsteps returned, calm and steady, like he had all the time in the world.
He stopped when he saw what I was holding.
His eyes sharpened, and his voice dropped into something I’d never heard before.
“Claire,” he said quietly, “put that down.”
And he stepped toward me.
I backed away, the trash can between us like it could protect me. My belly felt suddenly heavy, like the baby was bracing too.
“Why is this in our house?” I demanded, trying to keep my voice from shaking. “Why was it near the milk?”
Ethan exhaled through his nose, irritated—like I’d found a parking ticket, not a threat. “You’re spiraling.”
“Answer me.”
Marisol moved closer, hands up. “Sir, please. She shouldn’t be stressed.”
Ethan’s eyes snapped to her. “Marisol, you’re done here.”
“No,” she said, louder now. “I’m not leaving her alone with you.”
Something in Ethan’s expression changed—annoyance sliding into anger. “Stay out of my marriage.”
He reached for my phone. I jerked it back instinctively.
“Don’t touch me,” I said.
He laughed once, sharp and humorless. “I’m not going to hurt you. You’re acting crazy.”
My phone buzzed again.
Unknown Number: He tried this before. If you’re pregnant, call 911. Don’t warn him. Don’t confront him alone.
I stared at the screen, then at Ethan. My stomach twisted. “Who is texting me?” I blurted.
Ethan’s face went still. Too still. “Give me the phone, Claire.”
Marisol stepped between us. “No.”
Ethan shoved her shoulder just enough to move her aside. She stumbled into the counter, catching herself with a gasp.
“Stop!” I yelled, and the sound shocked even me.
The baby kicked hard. Pain flashed low in my belly. Panic flooded my throat.
I turned and waddled down the hall toward the bathroom—because it had a lock and a window, and because I needed space to think. Ethan followed, voice suddenly gentle again, the way he talked to waiters when a table was late.
“Claire, you’re hormonal. Let’s just talk.”
“Don’t come closer.”
I slammed the bathroom door and locked it. My hands shook so badly I dropped the phone once, then grabbed it and called 911.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“My husband tried to drug me,” I whispered. “I’m eight months pregnant. I found medication. He put something in my milk.”
The operator’s tone sharpened immediately. “Are you safe right now?”
The doorknob rattled.
“Not really,” I breathed. “He’s outside the door.”
“Officers are en route. Stay on the line. Do you have a way out?”
I looked at the small window above the tub—too high, but possible if I climbed. Then Ethan’s voice came through the door, low and dangerous.
“If you tell them lies,” he said, “you’re going to regret it.”
The rattling stopped.
A beat of silence.
Then I heard him walk away… and a kitchen drawer open.
Metal clinked.
And my whole body went cold.
“Ma’am,” the operator said, steady, “I need you to breathe with me. In—out. Good. Listen carefully: don’t open the door. If he tries to force it, get to the farthest corner and keep talking to me.”
I braced myself against the sink, breathing shallow. My mind raced through every “normal” thing Ethan had done lately that suddenly didn’t feel normal—the way he’d insisted on handling my vitamins, the way he’d taken over every appointment reminder, the way he’d smiled when I said the baby was kicking more, like movement was proof everything was fine.
Outside the bathroom, I heard Marisol’s voice, trembling but firm. “Ethan, stop! The police are coming!”
Ethan answered in a tone so calm it made my skin crawl. “Marisol, you’re going to lose your job. Walk away.”
Then: a thud, like someone bumped into a wall.
“Marisol?” I shouted.
No answer.
My throat tightened. “Did you send me those texts?” I called through the door, not even sure who I was talking to anymore.
Still nothing.
The operator spoke quickly. “Ma’am, I’m hearing raised voices in the background. Are you alone in the room?”
“Yes,” I whispered, eyes darting to the window again. I grabbed a towel, twisted it, and wedged it under the doorknob—something, anything to slow him down.
Then Ethan’s footsteps returned. Slow. Measured. Like he was counting.
“Claire,” he said, right outside the door, “open it.”
“No,” I choked out, tears burning hot. “I know what you did.”
A pause—then a sigh, theatrical. “You don’t. You think you do, but you don’t. I’m trying to protect our future.”
“Our future?” My voice cracked. “You mean your future.”
His tone dropped. “If you open this door, we can fix this quietly.”
I stared at my reflection—pale, shaking, eyes wide with terror—and realized something awful: he wasn’t scared of getting caught. He was counting on me being too embarrassed to say it out loud.
The operator cut in. “Officers are arriving. Stay where you are.”
A knock thundered from somewhere in the house. A man’s voice called, “Police!”
Ethan didn’t move. He didn’t answer. He just stood there, silent, close enough that I could hear his breathing through the wood.
Then his phone buzzed—loud, unmistakable.
And he whispered, almost to himself, “Not yet.”
I froze. Not yet? Like this was only the first step of something bigger.
The handle turned again—harder this time—testing the lock.
And that’s where I’m stopping, because I need to know: what would you do next—climb out the window, stay and wait for police, or try to get to Marisol? If you’re reading this in the U.S. and you’ve ever ignored a gut feeling because you didn’t want to “overreact,” tell me in the comments—did your instincts end up being right?
