Suicide Watch with the Other Woman's Child Chapter 1

My wife had postpartum depression. The day she stood on the edge of the rooftop, ready to throw herself off, I didn't reach out to pull her back.

Instead, I dragged a five-year-old boy out from behind me, pointed at her, and sneered.

"Go on, jump. Do it quickly."

"The second you hit the pavement, I'm bringing this boy into our home. He'll take your place."

"He'll live in your house, spend your money, and beat your precious daughter."

On cue, the little boy looked up at me with wide, timid eyes and called me "Daddy."

The dead, hollow look in my wife's eyes instantly erupted into a blazing fire of pure fury.

She climbed back over the safety railing, stormed over to me, and slapped me across the face with everything she had.

"Robert! You absolute monster! I'll go to hell before I let some bastard child take over my home!"

She packed up our baby daughter and left for her parents' house. For the first time in six months, she had fire in her eyes.

I touched my stinging, hot cheek and stood in the cold wind, laughing out loud.

But the moment her taxi disappeared around the corner, the smile melted off my face.

A sudden surge of metallic heat rushed up my throat. I doubled over, clutching my chest as a violent cough racked my body.

A small hand reached up, offering me a crumpled tissue. Nick patted my back gently.

"Mr. Robert, did I do good? Did I sound like a real actor?"

I took the tissue, wiping the blood from my lips, and squeezed it tight in my fist.

"You did great, Nick. Better than an Oscar winner."

Nick looked toward the empty railing, his brow furrowing. "But the lady... she looked like she really wanted to jump."

My heart squeezed, a pain so sharp it stole the air from my lungs.

She did. Ten minutes ago, half of her body was already dangling over the edge.

Those beautiful, bright eyes of hers had been completely empty. She couldn't even hear our daughter crying in her bassinet inside.

The psychiatrist's words echoed in my mind: Unless she experiences a massive emotional shock, whether it is love or hate, something to trigger her survival instinct, she won't make it.

My love could no longer save her.

For the past six months, I had knelt on the floor, begging her to eat a single bite of food. I had held her through sleepless nights, but she only wept, staring into the void.

And I was running out of time.

I reached into my pocket, my fingers brushing against the crumpled medical report. Late-stage pancreatic cancer.

I was going to die. How could a dying man use love to save someone who wanted to join the dead?

If I died while she was still in that state, she would surely follow me without hesitation.

So, it had to be hate.

A deep, burning hatred was the only thing that could force her to survive, to fight for revenge.

I pulled out my phone and dialed a number.

"Miss Ward, yes, I've transferred the funds. Proceed with the plan."

I hung up and looked at the lock screen photo of Grace. It was taken right after our wedding, her eyes curved into beautiful, happy crescents.

Grace, please don't hate me.

If keeping you alive means sending me to hell, I'll gladly burn.

When I got back, the house was dead silent.

I marched straight into the nursery.

The pink wallpaper, the white wooden crib, the drawers stuffed with tiny clothes, every single thing in this room had been chosen by her hand. It was the sanctuary of her motherhood.

And it was the first place I had to destroy.

I dismantled the crib, tore down the pastel wallpaper, and stuffed the baby clothes into heavy black trash bags. Then, I took the action figures, toy trucks, and plastic robots Nick had brought and scattered them across the floor.

The delicate nursery was gone, replaced by a messy boy's playroom.

Standing in the doorway of the ruined room, my chest throbbed with a suffocating pain. But I forced my hands to stop shaking long enough to snap a picture and post it to my social media feed.

The caption read: Finally, no more sickeningly sweet pink stuff. Welcome to your new playroom, son! Go wild!

My fingers trembled as I hit post.

Ten minutes later, my phone buzzed with a bank alert. Grace had just transferred exactly half of our joint savings into a private account.

I stared at the screen, tears spilling over my cheeks as a laugh escaped my throat.

That's my girl, Grace.

She was fighting back. She was protecting what was hers.

That was her survival instinct kicking in.

She could take every penny to buy a weapon to kill me, as long as she stayed off that rooftop.

Suddenly, a heavy pounding rattled the front door.

I wiped my face, letting my expression freeze into a cold, arrogant sneer.

I opened the door, ready to deliver another cruel insult, but stopped. Three police officers in uniform stood on the landing.

"Robert Sinclair? We received a domestic abuse report. You need to come with us to the station."

She had called the police.

The quiet, fragile Grace who used to hide under the covers and cry had learned to use the law to strike back at me.

Good.

Beautifully done.

I calmly held out my hands to be cuffed, silently cheering for her in the dark.