The Ten Minute Husband Chapter 1

Nate Everett has a pathological obsession with order.

When we married, he established a non-negotiable rule: any disagreement lasting longer than ten minutes was a dead end. He would walk away, refusing to waste a single second more of his life on "unproductive friction."

But on our anniversary, the morning sickness was a violent tide I couldn’t control. I made it to the boarding gate exactly three minutes late.

When I looked up, Nate had already signaled the crew to seal the cabin door. Through the window of the jet bridge, I saw him in first class. Sienna Reed was sitting in my seat.

This was the fourth time.

The math of Nate’s life was simple: if I was a step behind, my place was forfeited to Sienna.

The first time, a two-minute delay at security resulted in him flying to the Maldives with Sienna instead of me.

The second time, my prenatal check-up ran five minutes over; he checked Sienna into the luxury spa suite I had booked.

The third time, I was ninety seconds late downstairs because my legs gave out from exhaustion; his car peeled away with Sienna in the passenger seat.

"You’re always late, Eleanor," he had told me then, his voice as cold as a surgical blade. "I won't let a seat go to waste."

Now, I stood alone in the cavernous, silent terminal, and a jagged, tearing pain suddenly ripped through my abdomen. My hands shook as I dialed Nate’s number.

Busy signal. I tried again. Busy.

On the third attempt, he finally picked up.

"Sienna’s feeling airsick, and I’m busy tending to her," he said, his tone clipped. "Call an Uber or an ambulance yourself."

I looked down at the floor. A bright, terrifying pool of crimson was spreading across the white tile. I set the phone down on the cold ground.

Nate, in your perfect schedule, there was never a single minute for me.

So this time, I’m leaving you behind forever.

* * *

By the time the paramedics arrived, I had lost the ability to form coherent sentences.

They cut away my blood-soaked leggings and lifted me onto the gurney. A nurse gripped my wrist, her eyes urgent. "Where is your family? How many weeks pregnant? Any pre-existing conditions?"

"Eleven weeks," I wheezed. "My husband... he’s on a flight."

"What’s the father's name? Can we reach him?"

I closed my eyes, the fluorescent lights of the ambulance searing my retinas. "Don’t bother. He’s unavailable."

My phone buzzed one last time. Nathaniel’s name flashed on the screen. I stared at it for two seconds before sliding the bar to answer.

"Eleanor, did you actually call an ambulance?" His voice was a low hiss. In the background, I heard Sienna’s frail, melodic whimpering.

"Nate, is El okay?" she whispered. "Maybe we should turn the plane around... I can handle the nausea."

Nate’s voice flattened. "She’s an expert at escalating small things into dramas. Just lie back, Sienna." He turned his attention back to me. "Why did you call a goddamn ambulance for something the airport clinic could have handled? We’ve already cleared the runway. We aren't turning back for you."

The pain in my gut spiked again, a white-hot clawing. I bit my lip until I tasted copper.

"The paramedics... they think I’m miscarrying," I managed to gasp.

The line went silent for two beats.

"Are you using the baby to leverage me again?" Nate asked. His voice was weary, as if I were a difficult child. "Eleanor, you were the one who was late. If I disrupted the entire schedule for you every time, people would think time is a suggestion, not a law."

In the past, terrified of losing him, I would have spent every ounce of my energy explaining. I would have begged him to believe that I wasn't being dramatic—that the pain was real.

But as I watched the nurse swap out a blood-drenched gauze pad for a fresh one, the will to speak simply evaporated.

Sienna’s voice drifted through the speaker again, sweet as poisoned honey. "Nate, don't be so hard on her. Pregnant women are sensitive. She probably just needs you to tell her you love her."

Nate’s tone turned to ice. "I don’t have time for your jealousy rituals, Eleanor. Save the hospital receipts; I’ll have my assistant reimburse you. Stop calling. Sienna needs to rest."

The line went dead.

I checked the call log. Exactly ten minutes.

The nurse looked at me, her expression a mix of pity and professional concern. I turned the phone face down in my palm. "Please... just put it on silent."

When the initial exam was over, the sun had already set. The ER doctor placed a chart in front of me. "Threatened miscarriage. There’s a subchorionic hemorrhage. You need absolute bed rest. No movement, no stress."

"Will I lose the baby?" I asked.

"There’s still a heartbeat," she said, her brow furrowed. "But there are no guarantees. Can your husband get here tonight?"

I shook my head.

The doctor’s frown deepened. "You shouldn't be alone. If the bleeding increases, you hit that call button immediately. Do you understand?"

At that moment, the door pushed open. It wasn't Nate. It was his executive assistant, Marcus, wheeling Nate’s personalized Tumi suitcase.

He pulled a designer cashmere shawl from the bag. "Ms. Reed left this at the terminal. Mr. Everett was worried about the temperature drop on the return flight. He said since you’re already near the airport, you should wash this and take it to the dry cleaners so it’s ready for her by tomorrow morning."

The doctor’s face went livid. "She almost lost her child tonight. You’re asking her to do laundry?"

Marcus looked sheepish, shifting his weight. "Mr. Everett said Mrs. Everett is used to handling these details. And it needs to be ready by 9:00 AM for Ms. Reed’s arrival."

Marcus’s phone chimed. He put it on speaker. Nate’s voice filled the sterile room.

"Did you drop off the items?"

"I did, sir. But the doctor says Mrs. Everett can't leave the bed."

"Then have a courier pick it up after she cleans it. Eleanor, don't be difficult. Sienna needs that wrap; her circulation is poor."

I held the shawl out, my hand trembling. "Take it back. I’m not her maid, and I’m not her storage unit."

Nate’s voice was weary. "What is the drama now? It’s just a shawl."

I touched my stomach, where the dull ache remained. My voice was a ghost of itself. "You’re right. It’s just a shawl. Which is why it won’t matter if it gets lost."

As Marcus reached for the shawl, a small leather-bound booklet slid out of the suitcase and hit the floor. It was a prenatal health record.

The name on the cover: Sienna Reed.

At the bottom, a stamp from a week ago: Eight Weeks Gestation.