Nine months pregnant, and my husband was forcing me to take the fall for a murder his first love committed.
“Chloe has depression,” he said. “She can’t go to prison. You’re pregnant. The judge will go easy on you.”
Tears streamed down my face as I begged him. “Ryan, I’m due any day. Do you really want our child to be born in prison?”
He sneered. “Stop pretending. I have low sperm motility. How could the bastard in your belly possibly be mine?”
In court, I was taken into custody on the spot. At that exact moment, my water broke.
Everyone urged him to get me to a hospital, but he stopped the ambulance himself and had me taken to prison instead.
Inside the freezing prison van, my entire body shook with pain. With the last of my strength, I dialed a number.
“Adrian, save me… save my baby…”
***
I was nine months pregnant, and my husband, Ryan, wanted me to confess for his first love, Chloe.
In the federal courthouse, the judge looked down at me, his expression cold.
“Emma Wilson, do you admit that three months ago, you drove drunk and killed Victor Lane?”
I gripped the defendant’s stand, my belly tightening in excruciating waves.
It was my baby, kicking.
As if pleading with me not to confess.
But when I glanced toward the gallery, Ryan was bent over Chloe, tenderly wiping her tears.
Chloe leaned against him, her fingers clutching the fabric of his suit jacket as her shoulders trembled.
“Ryan, this is all my fault,” she sobbed.
“If I weren’t so fragile, Emma wouldn’t have been forced into this.”
“Maybe I should be the one to go to prison. My life isn’t worth anything, anyway.”
Ryan’s brow furrowed, and he pulled her tighter into his arms.
“Don’t say that. A place like prison would destroy you.”
Then he looked up at me, his gaze like ice.
“But if Emma goes, it’s fine. She’s already filthy, anyway.”
A tidal wave of sorrow crashed over me.
The judge didn’t know.
The real killer was sitting in......
