He Made Me Split Childbirth

My husband called himself a hardcore champion of gender equality. He took it so far that even in our most intimate moments, everything had to be accounted for, stroke for stroke. "Thirty-seven, thirty-eight... Honey, you took two extra touches tonight. I'm adding that to your tab." Whenever tears welled in my eyes and I protested the sheer indignity of it, he would gather me against his chest, pressing soft, coaxing kisses to my temple. "I'm not being stingy, Jo," he would whisper. "I do this because I respect you as an independent woman. A true equal." And so every dinner was split down to the cent, every Uber ride requested an exact fifty-percent reimbursement, and even the ninety-dollar fee for our marriage license at City Hall was followed by a Venmo request for forty-five. Until today. My water had broken an hour ago, pooling warm and terrifying against the hospital sheets. Before the nurse could prep me for the delivery room, his executive assistant, Camille, barged through the door. "Mr. Conrad, her four-thousand-dollar admission copay still hasn't cleared," Camille announced, tapping her Apple Watch with manicured precision. "It's six-oh-one p.m." Cold sweat drenched my hairline as another violent contraction seized my abdomen. I reached out blindly, gasping, "Simon... please. Can't we settle this after the baby is born?" Simon stepped into the room right behind her, his tailored charcoal suit immaculate, his expression smooth and unbothered. "Joanna, six o'clock is our daily household reconciliation time. You know the rules. No exceptions." Panting through the agonizing pressure, I fumbled for my phone on the bedside table, desperately trying to authorize the payment. But when the banking app loaded, the breath left my lungs. My account was frozen. Just yesterday, after discovering he had put down a million dollars on a luxury condo downtown in Camille's name, I dared to ask him why. In response, Simon had instantly suspended my access to the joint accounts. Available balance: $3.50. Seeing that I couldn't produce the money, Simon's face hardened into a mask of pure bureaucratic detachment. He gestured to the two orderlies waiting by the door. "Put her legs in the stirrups and bind the restraint straps," he ordered calmly. "Push the crowning back in." "Simon, no! What are you doing?!" I screamed, thrashing as cold canvas straps locked around my thighs, pinioning me to the metal frame. The agony of the baby's descent being physically halted tore through my pelvis like jagged glass. Simon leaned down, adjusting his cuffs. "Having no funds is not an excuse, Joanna. When you scrape together your half of the deposit, that's when you give birth." The sensation of tearing flesh and trapped life beneath me sent a chilling wave of numbness through my chest. In that blinding flash of pain, I realized something vital. This ledgers-and-balances ledger of our love—I was done keeping score. … The contractions rolled through me in monstrous waves, like a dull blade twisting through my vital organs. Cold perspiration ran down my spine, soaking the coarse cotton of the gown. The young resident on duty looked pale, wiping beads of sweat from his forehead as he looked between the monitor and Simon. "Mr. Conrad, at least let us administer an epidural. Her blood pressure is spiking—" Simon raised a pale, manicured hand, cutting the doctor off mid-sentence. "An epidural is an elective out-of-pocket medical expense," Simon said, his tone as light as if he were discussing a line-item deduction in a board meeting. "Her current balance is insufficient to cover the anesthesia fee. Since she failed to budget adequately for her labor, she needs to shoulder the physical cost herself." He paused, glancing over at Camille with an admiring nod. "Besides, Camille researched this extensively. Natural unmedicated childbirth tempers a woman's character. It fosters grit and true independence." Listening to his calm, rational voice, my chest tightened until I could barely draw oxygen. There was a time when he had insisted on splitting costs, too. But back then, when we walked out of a candlelit Italian bistro, he would always snatch the check first, tapping his card against the terminal before I could reach into my bag. Then he would pinch my cheek with a boyish grin. "Your half comes out of the family card I linked to your phone, beautiful." Knowing how grueling his early startup days were, I had insisted on paying my own way. He would pretend to pout, pulling me into an alleyway to steal a kiss. "What am I breaking my back for if not to spoil my wife? Or are you trying to shortchange me on kisses, too?" I had believed him. I thought that kind of devotion was an ironclad promise. Then Camille entered his orbit. Suddenly, Simon's insistence on equality morphed into a clinical, merciless audit of every breath I took, culminating in the monstrous cruelty happening right now. Through my blurring tears, my gaze caught on the diamond necklace glittering against Camille's collarbone. A hollow, bitter laugh nearly tore from my throat. That pendant alone cost hundreds of times more than the plain silver band Simon had slipped onto my finger seven years ago. He had promised me back then that we would have a proper ceremony once the business stabilized. But that hundred-dollar silver ring had stayed on my finger for seven long years, tarnishing against my skin. I lifted a trembling hand, pointing a finger at Camille. "Simon... this is your flesh and blood inside me... You bought her a five-figure diamond, and you won't even lend me four thousand dollars to save our child?" Simon went rigid, the warmth draining entirely from his eyes. "This is precisely why you'll never measure up to Camille," he said, each word coated in ice. "She is an economically autonomous professional. That necklace was an earned performance bonus for landing an institutional account. Meanwhile, you sit at home, demanding luxury as an entitlement. You contribute zero economic output to this household, yet you lack even the basic grace of gratitude." Inside my belly, the baby seemed to sense the hostility, thrashing violently against my pelvic wall. "Ah—!" A sound that wasn't entirely human tore from my throat as white-hot pain split my hips. My hand shot out, desperately grabbing the hem of Simon's blazer. "Today is the fourteenth... my monthly allowance drops tomorrow. Simon, please... just sign the guarantee slip for the hospital. You can deduct the whole four thousand from my transfer tomorrow morning!" Looking down at my ashen, contorted face, a flicker of hesitation finally crossed Simon's eyes. A sliver of hope sparked in my chest. When Simon had begged me to build a family with him, he pleaded with me to walk away from my hospital residency so I could prepare for pregnancy. In exchange, he insisted on treating my domestic labor "professionally"—paying me the market rate for a live-in housekeeper: five thousand dollars a month, wired promptly on the fifteenth. There were only sixteen hours left until the fifteenth. Swayed by the logic of his own accounting system, Simon reached for the hospital's billing voucher on the rolling tray. Just as his pen hovered over the signature line, Camille gasped softly, taking a sudden step backward and clutching her left hip. Tears welled in her wide, delicate eyes. "Mr. Conrad... the hairline fracture from that business trip last month... it's flaring up again. The bone aches so deeply..." Simon's pen froze. He spun around, catching her by the elbows with immediate, frantic tenderness. Camille offered a fragile, brave smile, waving him off. "Don't mind me. I'm not like Joanna—I wasn't blessed with the luxury of having a man pay my way through life. When things hurt, I just have to force myself to be tough." Simon checked her pulse, assured himself she was steady, and then tossed the Montblanc pen back onto the tray. He let out a heavy sigh, looking back at me with unvarnished disappointment. "I can't cover this for you, Joanna." "Simon—" "Camille sacrificed her health for our firm, and she's still working through the pain. Enabling you like this will only breed entitlement. If you don't have the cash, then you hold out for the next sixteen hours." His tone was conversational. Mild. As if the impending death of our child was merely an unfortunate delay in shipping. Deep inside me, as if sensing the absolute abandonment, the frantic thumping slowed. The violent kicks grew faint, softening into an eerie, suffocating stillness. "Help me..." I choked out, clawing at my abdomen in sheer panic, but the shock was already dragging me under. The edges of the room dissolved into black. The last thing that registered was the high-pitched shriek of the heart monitor and the resident shouting in terror: "Code blue! Maternal hemorrhage! She's crashing!" ... When my eyes fluttered open, the profound, rhythmic flutter beneath my ribs was gone. An emptiness as vast as an abyss occupied my lower body. Down below, the tears had been stitched together in haste, burning with a raw, jagged fire that seeped through the thin gauze. I didn't care about the agony. I shoved myself upright, ripping at the blankets. "My baby! Where is my baby?!" The recovery room was dead silent. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, sterile and indifferent. I tore the IV catheter out of the back of my hand, spraying drops of crimson onto the linoleum, and stumbled barefoot toward the heavy wooden door. I threw it open—and ran straight into Simon. He was holding a printed ledger, his eyes skimming the numbers before landing on me without a trace of emotion. "Good, you're awake," he said, tucking the paper into a folder. "Let's settle the bill. The emergency surgical intervention plus the extended critical care came out to thirty-six thousand five hundred. We split it fifty-fifty. Your portion is eighteen thousand two hundred and fifty." I stood frozen on the cold tile, my fingers clawing into his lapels. "Where is our child? Simon, look at me! Where is our baby?!" He frowned, his brows pulling together in distaste. "Can you act like an emotionally stable adult for once?" he snapped. "The infant is in a specialized neonatal incubator. But your personal funds are currently in arrears. Clear your share of the medical expenses, and I will naturally have the staff take you to see him." Tears streamed hot and bitter over my cheeks. "I have three dollars and fifty cents to my name! You know that, Simon! He's your son too! Just let me see him... please, just let me look at him once!" Seeing no credit card produced, the lingering warmth in Simon's gaze vanished completely. "If you can't pay, find a way to finance it yourself. Emotional outbursts don't balance the books, Joanna. Consider this a necessary lesson in self-reliance." Gasping through the tearing pain between my thighs, I turned in desperation toward Camille, who stood just behind him, an insincere expression of pity plastered across her face. "Camille... please," I sobbed, dropping all pretense of pride. "Loan me the money. Just enough to clear the nursery deposit. I only need to see his face, just to know he's breathing..." A cruel, razor-thin smirk flickered across Camille's lips. "Well, lending you the money isn't entirely out of the question," she murmured, tilting her head. "On one condition." I stared at her through blurry vision. "Get down on your knees right now. Shout down this hallway that you are a worthless, pathetic freeloader. Confess that you're nothing but a parasitic leech sucking the life out of Mr. Conrad. Do that, and I'll swipe my card." My blood ran cold. Once upon a time, I had graduated top of my class from a top-tier medical school. I had an open offer for a surgical residency. I had a brilliant, sparkling future ahead of me before I threw it all away because Simon begged me to be the foundation of his home. And now, here I was. Yet, if humiliation was the price of seeing my son alive, I would pay it. "Fine." My knees buckled, hitting the linoleum with a sickening thud. "I'm a freeloader!" I wept, burying my face toward the floor as hot shame burned my throat. "I'm a parasite living off a man's labor!" Camille clicked her tongue, shaking her head in amusement. "Oh, Joanna, that was barely a whisper. Where's the sincerity? How about a slap to your own face with every confession? That way I'll know you truly mean it." I whipped my head up toward Simon, my eyes burning with silent, desperate pleading. Simon merely adjusted his watchband, unfazed. "You accrued this debt yourself, Joanna. Paying in emotional currency is the bare minimum when you can't pay in cash. Camille is offering you a lifeline—a little humility won't kill you." The last remnant of my soul withered into ash. I took a ragged breath and screamed at the top of my lungs: "I am a pathetic freeloader!" "Slap." The impact cracked like a gunshot in the sterile corridor. "I am a parasite!" "Slap." Nurses, doctors, and visitors stopped in their tracks. Cell phones were raised; shutter clicks echoed off the walls. I kept my eyes clamped shut, holding onto the phantom memory of my unborn child to keep from passing out. Simon hadn't always been a monster. At three months pregnant, he had knelt beside my bed, pressing his ear against my belly, weeping with wonder. "Hey there, little Gabriel. Daddy's going to make sure the world never touches a hair on your head." At four months, he had handed me a heavy leather binder containing a trust fund setup. "Every dime I earn is going toward his future, Jo. I'm going to give you two the most beautiful life imaginable." And now, I was slapping myself raw on a hospital floor just to buy a glimpse of his crib. When my cheeks were swollen purple and my lips bled from the blows, I reached out a bruised, shaking hand, catching the hem of Camille's silk trousers. "I did it... Please. Take me to my baby." Camille smiled serenely. She bent down, leaning in so close her perfume—expensive, suffocating jasmine—filled my senses. Her voice was a venomous whisper meant only for me. "I'm terribly sorry, big sister. The little thing didn't make it." My heart stopped. "You see," Camille whispered, her eyes dancing with wicked delight, "it was the most miraculous coincidence. His umbilical cord and bone marrow stem cells were an exact match for my old bone trauma. I only had the lab harvest a tiny vial... Who knew his little heart would just give out on the table?" A deafening roar erupted inside my skull. "Stem cells." I was a medical graduate. I understood with excruciating, clinical precision what that meant. Harvesting viable, highly potent primitive stem cells from a neonate required the tissue to be extracted while the body was under extreme metabolic distress. And standard protocol for such experimental collections prohibited heavy analgesia, lest it contaminate the harvest. Suddenly, the pitying looks from the recovery nurses made horrific sense. The whispers I had overheard outside my door—"Mr. Conrad really spares no expense for that assistant... a private cellular repository worth millions..." It was Simon. Simon had sanctioned the butchery of our son. A tidal wave of primal fury obliterated the last shred of my sanity. "You murdered my baby!" I lunged upward like a wounded beast, my fingers locking around Camille's throat with lethal force. Camille's face flushed crimson instantly, her manicured nails clawing at my wrists as she choked out, "Simon... help..." The next second, a fist caught a handful of my hair, wrenching my skull backward. "Crack." Simon's backhand sent me crashing across the floor. My teeth sliced through my inner cheek, filling my mouth with the metallic taste of blood. "Joanna! Have you lost your goddamn mind?!" Camille collapsed against Simon's chest, sobbing hysterically, trembling like an injured sparrow. "Simon, I don't know what happened... She just attacked me! I only wanted to help her, why is she treating me like this...?" Simon held her close, shielding her body with his, glaring down at me with pure, unadulterated revulsion. "You are repulsive, Joanna! Camille was generous enough to offer you a bridge loan, and you repay her with violence?!" Ignoring the blood dripping from my split lip, I dragged myself forward, grabbing the cuff of his trousers. "Simon! She killed Gabriel! She drained his stem cells—our baby is dead, don't you understand?! He's gone!" Simon looked down at me, his jaw clenching in disgust and utter weariness. "What kind of deranged fiction are you concocting now?" he sneered. "I personally instructed Camille to pay the neonatal resuscitation fee hours ago. Are you so consumed by pathetic jealousy that you would literally curse your own son to death?" "Jealousy?!" The tears burned like acid. I gripped his leather shoe with white knuckles. "I'm not lying! If you don't believe me, walk down that hall right now and look into that incubator! Take me there! If he's alive, I'll get on my knees, I'll apologize to Camille, I will work as her slave for the rest of my life—" Simon reached down and methodically peeled my bleeding fingers from his shoe, one by one. "Enough of this circus." His voice was dead. "Look at yourself. You look like an escaped lunatic. Dragging you into the neonatal unit would only traumatize the child. Until you learn how to regulate your emotions like a civilized human being, you will not be setting foot near him." He glanced over his shoulder at the two private security guards standing near the nurse's station. "Restrain her. Put a tether strap on her if you have to. Make sure she stays away from Camille." He paused, his gaze sweeping over me with cold finality. "If she wants to act like a feral dog, let her guard Camille's room for the next two days." Watching him turn his back on me, an icy, terrifying calm settled over my shattered bones. Eight years together. Seven years of marriage. It was all an obscene, calculated joke. I had spent years convincing myself that he was merely a rigid man with strict, modern principles. The truth was far simpler: he was an empty vessel devoid of a human soul. As the guards grabbed my bruised arms to drag me toward the containment room, I found my voice. It wasn't a scream. It was a cold, sharp blade cut from the depths of my being. "Simon Conrad. I want a divorce." The words weren't loud, but they struck his spine like a physical blow. He stopped mid-stride. Slowly, he turned around, a condescending smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as if he had just heard a child threaten to run away from home. "A divorce? By all means." He took two deliberate steps toward me, leaning down slightly. "Just remember one detail, Joanna. Your mother is currently in the ICU at St. Jude's. Without my corporate account paying her life-support copays every month, she won't survive seventy-two hours." A violent shudder racked my frame. I stared at the stranger wearing my husband's face. "You're using my dying mother to threaten me?" "I'm educating you on reality," Simon replied softly. "Adult life isn't dictated by temper tantrums, Jo. Actions have balance sheets." He waved his hand, and the guards dragged me roughly down the corridor, locking me inside the auxiliary suite adjacent to Camille's private room. Not thirty minutes later, his corporate attorney hurried in, a heavy leather portfolio tucked under his arm. The lawyer dropped a thick document onto my bedside table. "Mrs. Conrad, this is the dissolution agreement drafted per Mr. Conrad's instructions. Since you initiated the separation, Mr. Conrad has designated you the party at fault. As such, you are required to leave the marriage with zero marital assets." He flipped open to the signature page, pointing with a polished silver pen. "Furthermore, due to the public disturbance you caused today, Mr. Conrad's firm suffered measurable brand damage. You will compensate his venture in the amount of $1.82 million, to be satisfied through the immediate transfer of your family's remaining ten percent equity in your father's estate." I stared down at the brutal terms laid out in black ink. "Clause One: The Wife voluntarily waives all claims to community property, real estate, and financial holdings, exiting the union with zero distribution." "Clause Two: The Wife shall fully indemnify the Husband for commercial enterprise damages totaling $1,820,000, satisfied via private equity forfeiture." "Clause Three: The Wife waives all future rights of civil or legal recovery post-dissolution." Every syllable was a mockery of the life I had surrendered. I remembered his promises when we were twenty-two. "I'll protect you from everything, Jo. You'll never have to cry a single tear." From sweet beginnings to microscopic itemizations. Vows have an expiration date. And once expired, they turn into cyanide. Hot, heavy tears splashed onto the crisp white paper, blurring the printed clauses. Simon walked into the room, his voice taking on that familiar, performative gentleness. "Your mother's frail heart couldn't survive the shock of you being destitute, Joanna. I'm doing this to help you mature. Sign the papers, get on your knees and apologize to Camille, and we can pretend today never happened." The world seemed to mute. Through the ringing in my ears, I heard my own voice, quiet and strangely raspy. "All right... I won't divorce you." A visible wave of relief washed over Simon's features. "See? Isn't that better?" he said, stepping closer with an outstretched hand. "All that screaming, and what did it get you except a public embarrassment—" Before he could finish, I let out a low, bloodcurdling laugh. My right hand slipped under the thin hospital pillow, wrapping around the stainless-steel surgical debridement scalpel I had palmed from the recovery tray hours ago. "I won't divorce you," I whispered, meeting his eyes. "Because if I had a second chance at life, Simon... I would never have let you breathe the same air as me." Before he could process my words, my left hand shot out, locking onto his wrist, while my right hand plunged the scalpel straight into my own lower abdomen. A fountain of dark, arterial blood erupted between us. Simon's face went completely, horrifically white. It took him several seconds of stunned paralysis before he threw both hands onto the wound, desperately trying to stem the flood. But the crimson fluid poured through his fingers, staining his cuffs, his shirt, his silver watch. "Joanna! Are you insane?!" he shrieked, his voice breaking into hysterical fragments. I smiled through the agony, my other hand already holding my secondary burner phone to my ear, the screen glowing with three dialed digits: 9-1-1. "Operator," I rasped, tasting copper and iron. "I am reporting a premeditated homicide and illegal organ trafficking under the cover of domestic coercion."