From Naive to Ruthless

From Naive to Ruthless

Leo Fairchild

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The bell above my clinic door jingled. I was Dr. Hayes, a woman who' d finally built a life, a stable family. Pregnant with our planned baby, I believed my husband, Mark, was as excited as I was. Then Chloe, a seemingly confident student, walked in with a smile that felt sharp, unpleasant. "I'm Chloe. Mark's student," she stated, then pushed up her sleeve. There, a fresh tattoo: an infinity symbol intertwined with our anniversary date. "Mark got one too," she purred, "Matching. Cute, right? He said it symbolized forever. Our forever." My stomach clenched, the air left my lungs. That night, Mark played the doting husband, his hand resting on my pregnant belly. But I smelled her perfume, faintly. Days later, I watched on our car's security camera as Mark drove to Chloe's apartment, not a "faculty meeting." I heard him tell her, "Poor Evie. So trusting... Evie' s predictable, a bit naive." He laughed with her, calling my past, my pain, "clingy." Then came Chloe' s texts: a photo of Mark in her bed, followed by a box of my childhood cookies. "He got them for me," she wrote, "Said they reminded him of sweet, innocent things. Guess I' m his new sweet thing." He saw me as the damaged girl from the group home, easily fooled, not the woman I'd become. The man I believed saved me from my past used it to mock me with his mistress. How could I bring our baby into a home built on such casual, callous lies? The trusting, hopeful Evie was gone. I called a clinic, then a ruthless lawyer. This time, I was playing for keeps.

Introduction

The bell above my clinic door jingled.

I was Dr. Hayes, a woman who' d finally built a life, a stable family.

Pregnant with our planned baby, I believed my husband, Mark, was as excited as I was.

Then Chloe, a seemingly confident student, walked in with a smile that felt sharp, unpleasant.

"I'm Chloe. Mark's student," she stated, then pushed up her sleeve.

There, a fresh tattoo: an infinity symbol intertwined with our anniversary date.

"Mark got one too," she purred, "Matching. Cute, right? He said it symbolized forever. Our forever."

My stomach clenched, the air left my lungs.

That night, Mark played the doting husband, his hand resting on my pregnant belly.

But I smelled her perfume, faintly.

Days later, I watched on our car's security camera as Mark drove to Chloe's apartment, not a "faculty meeting."

I heard him tell her, "Poor Evie. So trusting... Evie' s predictable, a bit naive."

He laughed with her, calling my past, my pain, "clingy."

Then came Chloe' s texts: a photo of Mark in her bed, followed by a box of my childhood cookies.

"He got them for me," she wrote, "Said they reminded him of sweet, innocent things. Guess I' m his new sweet thing."

He saw me as the damaged girl from the group home, easily fooled, not the woman I'd become.

The man I believed saved me from my past used it to mock me with his mistress.

How could I bring our baby into a home built on such casual, callous lies?

The trusting, hopeful Evie was gone.

I called a clinic, then a ruthless lawyer.

This time, I was playing for keeps.

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