8-Month Pregnant, Hubby Demands I Cook His Birthday Feast

Chapter 1

I was eight months pregnant when Theo Irvine suddenly decided I was going to cook a feast for his birthday. Not just any dinner—a full-on spread, and he invited his friends to come and celebrate.

At the party, during a game of Truth or Dare, Susan Evergreen deliberately lost and picked Truth. She pointed at my baby bump and sneered, "Amy, your stretch marks are disgusting. It's like a swarm of maggots crawling across your skin."

The laughter that followed felt like daggers, each one digging deeper into my pride. My face flushed, and my dignity crumbled to nothing.

I demanded an apology, but Theo just frowned, shaking his head. "Jenny was just joking. Why are you so sensitive? If you don't want to eat, don't. But don't ruin the mood."

That rainy night, he kicked me out of the house—me, his eight-months-pregnant wife. I was standing there in nothing but thin pajamas, shivering as the cold rain soaked through to my bones.

As I stood there, I heard him bragging to his friends, "She still thinks she’s some kind of princess. Look at her—eight months pregnant, as fat as a pig. Who else would want her but me? Just wait. She’ll be back on her knees, apologizing in ten minutes."

But this time, he was wrong.

I didn’t beg. I didn’t crawl back. I turned around, grabbed a taxi, and booked an appointment for an induced abortion.

A man like him didn’t deserve to be a father.

When I told the doctor what I wanted, he hesitated. "You're already pretty far along. Are you sure about this? Does the father know?"

"He's dead," I said flatly.

The sympathy in the doctor's eyes softened, and he didn’t ask any more questions. Since Theo had never once accompanied me to a prenatal checkup, and we weren’t legally married, there was no record of him in the system. After confirming everything, the procedure was scheduled for two days later.

When I returned home, I was drenched to the bone. The rain had cut through me like ice, but I didn’t feel a thing. Just numb.

I climbed the stairs, pushed open the door. The party was over, but the mess remained. Empty bottles, spilled drinks, frosting smeared on the floor—it was a complete wreck.

Theo was on the couch, a cigarette hanging between his fingers. As soon as he saw me, his face darkened, and he threw a pillow at me.

"Amy! Jenny was just messing around. Why’d you have to storm off in the middle of the night? She’s just a kid—she doesn't know better! You’re about to be a mother. Why stoop to her level?"

Oh, so calling my stretch marks "maggots" was a joke. Calling me a pig was a joke.

To Theo, everything Jenny said was harmless fun. She was just a naive little girl. He conveniently forgot that I was once that young too, only a year older than her when we got together.

Why was I supposed to tolerate this, over and over again?

Every time Jenny insulted me, Theo defended her. Never me. I felt smaller than dirt.

"Besides," he continued, "Jenny wasn’t wrong. Why are you so petty? Can’t handle a little truth?"

The anger hit me first, then came the despair.

I used to argue, clinging to the shreds of dignity I had left in this marriage. But now? Not anymore. This marriage wasn’t worth fighting for.

The pillow hit me square in the side, sending a sharp jolt of pain through my body.

Theo thought my silence meant submission. Smirking, he sneered, "What are you standing there for? Can’t you see how messy the place is? Clean it up."

I glanced around. The floor was a disaster—alcohol spills, smashed cake.

When they were having fun, I was the inconvenience. But when it was time to clean, suddenly I was useful.

I wasn’t going to clean up. Without a word, I turned to walk away, heading for the bedroom.

But just as I reached for the door, it swung open.

Jenny stepped out, wearing a silk gown that clung to her curves in all the right ways. It was clear she wanted to be noticed.