My Wife Surrogated For Her Ex

When my wife helped her drunk childhood sweetheart into our apartment, I was lying in bed, doubled over from excruciating stomach cramps. She didn’t spare me a single glance. Instead, she guided him straight to our bedroom and laid him down across our marital bed. Then, with a tenderness she hadn't shown me in years, she took a warm cloth and gently wiped his face. "Cathy, give me a hug..." he slurred, his voice thick with liquor. A soft, genuine smile lit up my wife's face—a smile I hadn't seen directed at me in months. Without warning, she grabbed my arm and yanked me out of bed. "I need to stay in here and take care of him tonight," she said, her voice flat and matter-of-fact. "Go sleep in the guest room. And tomorrow morning, make some seafood chowder for breakfast. He loves it." She had completely forgotten that I have a severe, potentially life-threatening seafood allergy. Even a trace of cross-contamination could send me into anaphylactic shock. I clutched my burning abdomen, fighting the pain. "Did you get my medication? You said you’d pick it up on your way home." She rolled her eyes, her impatience sharp and stinging. "It’s just your usual stomach pain. Stop being so delicate. Figure it out yourself." In that quiet, humiliating moment, the last piece of my devotion crumbled into dust. A week ago, she had casually announced her intention to act as a surrogate—to carry a frozen embryo created by him and his deceased girlfriend. Deep down, I knew our marriage had already entered its final countdown. Later, she would end up on her knees, sobbing and begging me to love her the way I used to, to cherish her again. Too bad. Some fractures can never be mended. 1 This wasn't the first time my wife, Catherine, had brought Dean home drunk. But it was the first time she dropped all pretense of respect for me, carrying another man straight into the bed we shared as husband and wife. When she pulled me up from the mattress, a sharp, white-hot blade of pain shot through my gut. "Dean drank way too much," she instructed, her eyes fixed on him. "Go make some honey tea to sober him up. Put extra honey in it. He likes it sweet." I forced down the rising tide of fury in my throat. "If you're so worried about him being too drunk to take care of himself, take him home. His parents can look after him." Catherine turned and glared at me. "His parents are in their fifties! How could you be so heartless as to disturb them this late?" I stared at her, my jaw tightening. She worried endlessly about his parents, who were barely past fifty. Yet she seemed to have conveniently forgotten how my mother, nearly seventy, had traveled from her quiet rural home to take care of her when she was down with a fever last winter. And what did Catherine do in return? She criticized my mother's cooking, complained about her habits, and even confiscated the modest living allowance I gave her, claiming a woman living in a small town had her own garden and didn't need a single cent of my money. "Are you planning on staying right beside him all night?" I asked, my voice deadly quiet. Suddenly aware that Dean had wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close, Catherine looked momentarily flustered. She patted his hand gently. "Dean, let go." Dean slowly opened his eyes, staring up at her with glossy, unfocused eyes. "Babe... remember back in the day? Whenever I got drunk, we used to cuddle and kiss..." Catherine cast a nervous glance at me. "He... he's out of his mind right now. He doesn't know what he's saying. Don't take it personally." I let out a cold, humorless laugh. "So you're just going to spend the night curled up in his arms?" Catherine hurriedly pulled herself free from his grip and took a step toward me. "When he drinks, he turns into a helpless child. I can't just leave him like this." I pressed my palm against my side, swallowing the bitter taste in my mouth. "He's a grown man with two working legs. He doesn't need another man's wife mothering him. I'm moving him to the guest room right now." Before my hand could even brush Dean's shoulder, Catherine shoved me back hard. "Connor, I married you, I didn't sell my soul to you!" her voice cracked with sudden rage. "I can spend time with whoever I want, and you don't get a say. Dean is sensitive—he can't sleep in a foreign bed. Stop throwing a childish tantrum!" As if on cue, Dean pulled her back into his embrace. The movement was smooth, practiced, and intimate, as though they had done it a thousand times before. "Babe," Dean murmured, resting his face against her shoulder. "Our bed is so comfortable. With you here, I know I'm going to have a wonderful night." "Our bed?" My heart sank into a dark, bottomless pit. Before we got married, I had offered to buy a brand-new master bedroom suite. Catherine had insisted on bringing the bed from her old rental apartment, claiming she was used to the mattress. Now I understood. It wasn't about comfort. That mattress was saturated with memories of her and Dean. I took a deep, shaky breath, about to speak, when Dean groaned again, clutching his stomach. "Babe... it hurts." I watched in stunned silence as my wife pulled a blister pack of prescription stomach medication straight out of her coat pocket. Dean offered her a lazy, triumphant smile. "I knew it. You never forget how my stomach acts up when I drink. All these years, and you still keep my meds on you." Catherine seemed to realize how damning it looked. Her expression shifted, and she looked up at me nervously. "I... it's just an old habit. It doesn't mean anything. We've been broken up for years. We're just friends now." My lips curved into a bitter line. "If you're just friends, you won't mind giving those pills to your husband, right? Seeing as my stomach—" Before I could finish my sentence, Catherine pushed a pill directly into Dean's mouth, handing him a glass of water. The sight felt like a physical blow to my chest. Love and indifference really were that obvious, wasn't it? "Your stomach pain is a chronic thing," Catherine said without looking at me. "You can handle it. Dean is different. His pain tolerance is incredibly low—he suffers terribly even with a mild ache." My hand came down heavy on the nightstand, sending a sharp clap echoing through the room. "Catherine, I am not noble enough to share my wife with another man. You need to decide right now—it's either him or me." Catherine stormed up to me, her hand swinging wildly through the air. "SLAP." 2 "You're unbelievable, Connor!" she hissed, her voice trembling with indignation. "What's wrong with me taking care of a friend? I'm telling you, if you keep making scenes like this, I'll divorce you!" I pressed the tip of my tongue against the inside of my bruised cheek where her ring had clipped me. Without saying a word, I pulled out my phone and dialed Sadie, my childhood friend who had grown up in the same small town as me. "Hey, Sadie," I said into the receiver, keeping my voice smooth and deliberate. "Let's grab breakfast tomorrow morning. That little diner we used to go to." Ignoring Catherine's pale, furious face, I turned on my heel and walked out of the room. I stood on the guest room balcony in the frigid night air and lit a cigarette. I took a deep pull, letting the smoke burn down into my lungs. Memories of the first time I met Catherine drifted into my mind. Back then, I was a young, ambitious engineer, practically living at the office to pull off a massive project. I worked myself to the bone, routinely skipping meals. Catherine was the daughter of the company's owner, Mr. Lancaster. One afternoon, when my stomach ulcers flared up so badly I collapsed on the office floor, she was the one who found me. She took me to the ER. She stayed by my bedside, wiping my forehead, bringing me broth. I fell hard for her gentle care. Once the project wrapped up successfully, I began pursuing her with everything I had. It took six months for her to agree to be my girlfriend. Our path to marriage felt natural, quiet, and warm. Or so I thought—until Dean returned from abroad. Suddenly, he was calling her at all hours, inviting her out for drinks and dinners. At first, I voiced my discomfort, but she would pout, wrap her arms around my neck, and accuse me of being overly possessive. Perhaps it was my own lenient foolishness that had reignited their spark. I didn't sleep a wink that night. From across the hall, I could hear the faint, soft coos of my wife whispering comfort to Dean whenever he stirred. When morning came, I walked out of the guest room with heavy, bruised-looking dark circles under my eyes. I saw Catherine busy in the kitchen, standing over the stove. A faint flick of hope stirred in my chest. "Maybe she's making something for me to make up for last night." I stepped forward, about to reach around her waist out of sheer muscle memory, when my eyes caught the ingredients sitting on the counter: fresh crab meat, shrimp, and scallops. "I'm severely allergic to shellfish," I said, my voice dropping an octave. Catherine glanced back at me, her lip curling in a slight sneer. "This is seafood chowder for Dean. There's none for you." My hands curled into tight fists at my sides. Just then, Dean strolled out of the master bathroom. A plush towel was wrapped around his waist, and an unbuttoned silk shirt hung loosely off his broad shoulders, showing off his sculpted chest. Catherine's face flushed with a soft, smitten pink. "Put some proper clothes on," she scolded gently, though her eyes lingered. "You'll catch a cold." Dean walked right past me, stopping at the kitchen island. "Connor, I'm going to be relying on your hospitality for the next few days." I froze. "What?" Catherine walked over to Dean, naturally reaching up to fasten the buttons of his shirt one by one. "Dean hasn't been feeling well lately. I've decided to let him stay here for a while so I can help nurse him back to health. He'll move out once he's recovered." I leaned heavily against the dining table, staring at her. "And what if I say no?" Catherine let out a sharp sigh. "This is my house, Connor. If I want to invite a friend to stay, you don't have a veto. If you feel uncomfortable, you're welcome to stay at your office until Dean leaves." Without waiting for my reply, she dished out a steaming bowl of seafood chowder and set it down in front of Dean. Dean took a spoon, tasted it, and gave her a enthusiastic thumbs-up. "Babe, you're amazing. By the way, did you talk to him about what we discussed last night?" Catherine glanced at me, her tone cold and indifferent. "It's my body. He doesn't get to control what I do with it." Dean nodded, turning his head to look at me with a patronizing expression. "Don't worry, Connor. I'll arrange everything. Once Catherine gives birth to the baby, I'll take the child and leave immediately. We won't disturb your lives." I stared at them, completely stunned. "What on earth are you talking about?" Catherine met my gaze, completely unbothered. "Dean's girlfriend died in a car accident a year ago. Before she passed, they frozen an embryo together. I'm going to have that embryo implanted in my uterus and carry their baby to term for him." The words hit me like a thunderbolt, shattering the room into sharp, agonizing fragments. 3 I stared at Catherine, my mind struggling to process the sheer absurdity of her words. "Have you lost your mind?" I choked out. "That kind of illicit surrogacy isn't even legal here!" Dean offered a casual, dismissive chuckle. "Don't worry about the legalities, Connor. I'll be taking Catherine abroad for the procedure and the term. I'll take excellent care of her and the baby. Once the child is born safely, I'll send her right back to you." I didn't even look at Dean. My eyes stayed locked on my wife, my chest heaving. "If you go through with carrying another man's child," I said, my voice dangerously steady, "we are getting a divorce." Without another word, I grabbed my coat and walked out the door. By the time I reached my office, my head was throbbing with a violent migraine, and my stomach felt like it was being twisted in knots. A paper cup of warm water and two small white pills were gently placed on my desk. I looked up, dazed. It was Sadie. She had dropped by my studio space. "Take these, Connor," she said softly, her eyes filled with genuine concern. "They'll help with the spasms." Her gentle voice pulled me out of the dark spiral in my head. I swallowed the medication and washed it down with the warm water, leaning back against my office chair with an exhausted sigh. "I'm sorry," I muttered. "I promised I'd buy you breakfast this morning, and I flaked." Sadie smiled, a sweet, bright warmth radiating from her that felt like sunshine after a brutal winter storm. "Don't worry about it. Whenever you and your wife have some free time, come over to my place. I'll cook us a proper home-style meal." A bitter laugh escaped my lips. Catherine was a wealthy heiress, born into luxury. How could she ever appreciate simple, home-style cooking? My mind flashed back to the first time I brought her home to meet my mother. Mom had spent two days preparing a feast of local dishes, her face glowing with pride. But Catherine hadn't touched a single bite. She had openly turned her nose up at the spread, whispering loudly that it smelled like "farm slop." I would never forget the look of sheer embarrassment and hurt on my mother's weathered face that day. After Sadie left to check on the morning prints, I reached for the silver photo frame sitting on the corner of my desk. In the picture, I was holding Catherine, a brilliant, radiant smile on my face—looking like a man who believed he held the entire world in his arms. But looking closer now, Catherine's expression was distant, her eyes clouded with hesitation. Then, my eyes caught a detail on her hand in the photo—a ring on her right index finger. My heart felt as though it had been stabbed by an icicle. It wasn't the custom wedding ring I had spent months designing and refining for her. It was a designer couple's ring—a limited edition line from a high-end luxury brand. And if my memory served me right, I had seen the matching male version of that exact ring on Dean's finger just hours ago. The office was dead quiet. I traced the plain platinum band on my own left ring finger, letting out a silent, hollow laugh. Slowly, deliberately, I slid the ring off my finger and set it on the desk. I opened my laptop, created a blank document, and typed out two bold words at the top: DIVORCE AGREEMENT 4 It was past midnight when I finally returned to the apartment, utterly exhausted in body and spirit. Catherine wasn't home. I dialed her number. The phone rang for a long time before someone finally picked up. Before I could say a word, Dean's voice drifted through the speaker, lazy and intimate. "She's already asleep. Whatever it is, talk to her tomorrow." Then, the line went dead. I gave a faint, resigned smile. I picked up the printed divorce papers from my briefcase, signed my name at the bottom, and left them sitting dead-center on the dining table. To my surprise, Catherine didn't come home for the next week. I didn't bother reaching out. Instead, I sank into a simple, predictable routine: moving between my office and the quiet apartment. Oddly enough, in her absence, I found a sense of peace I hadn't felt in years. I could come home, throw my jacket on the rack, and collapse onto the couch without being lectured. I didn't have to spend hours searching through complicated organic recipes to prepare her three meals a day plus midnight snacks. I no longer had to mark calendar dates with a red pen, desperately tracking her ovulation cycles just to beg for her affection in hopes of becoming a father. Two weeks later, Catherine returned. Dean was supporting her by the elbow as she walked through the front door. Her face was pale, her skin sallow. As Dean helped her down onto the sofa, his phone rang. When he looked at the screen, a soft, fond smile spread across his face—the undeniable look of a man who was falling in love with someone new. "Babe, I've got something I need to take care of," Dean said, glancing down at Catherine. "Rest up, okay?" Catherine nodded obediently, her tone docile. "Okay. Be safe." Watching the unspoken intimacy linger between them, I almost wanted to laugh out loud. Once Dean left, Catherine's eyes finally landed on me. Her demeanor shifted instantly back to her usual cold superiority. "I haven't eaten all day," she declared in a commanding tone. "Go make me some afternoon tea and pastries." Hearing her speak to me like a servant, I felt a faint smirk touch my lips. "I have work back at the studio. I'm leaving." "PFT!" Catherine snatched a throw pillow from the couch and slammed it against my chest. "I'm calling my dad in a minute! You don't need to go to work anymore. For the next ten months, your only job is to stay home and take care of me. I'll have my dad keep paying your salary." Ten months? My stomach churned. My eyes moved slowly down to her stomach. Catherine rested both hands gently over her abdomen, a bright, triumphant smile blooming on her pale face. "The embryo transfer was a success." The last lingering spark of hope inside me died, turning to cold ash. I picked up the signed divorce agreement from the sideboard and dropped it onto the glass coffee table in front of her. "Let's make this clean and end it here." Catherine's face transformed instantly into a mask of rage. "Connor! Without my father backing you, you'll go right back to being the penniless nobody you were when I met you!" Her arrogant, condescending posture only reaffirmed that I was making the right choice. Sheltered in her bubble of wealth, she had convincing herself that my success was entirely a gift from her family. She had no idea that the studio's major clients and successful projects were the result of my own blood, sweat, and late-night hustling. In fact, over sixty percent of her father's firm's revenue had come from contracts I brought in. If I walked away with my team, her father's business would be severely crippled. "Just sign it," I said quietly. "I'm giving you and Dean my blessing. That way, when the baby is born, it won't have to carry the stigma of an affair." Catherine stood up, stepped closer to me, and suddenly wrapped her arms around my torso. "Honey, please understand. Once I give birth, Dean will take the baby away forever. After that... after that, I'll give you a baby of our own, okay?" I reached down to shove her off me when her phone began to ring. It was a custom ringtone—a bright, upbeat melody she had set exclusively for Dean. A bitter smirk curled on my lips. She hit answer. Within seconds, the color drained from her face. "I... I'll be right there!" she gasped. Hanging up, she grabbed my arm, her fingers digging in frantically. "Drive me to the hospital! Dean was in a car accident! I'm too panicked to drive... please!" I didn't refuse. Until the divorce papers were officially processed by the state, she was still legally my wife. If she got into a wreck driving in a panic, it would only cause me more legal headaches. All the way to the hospital, Catherine kept screaming at me to go faster, even reaching over twice to grab the steering wheel. Sweat broke out on my back from her erratic, dangerous outbursts. "If anything happens to Dean," she spat out, her eyes bloodshot as she glared at me, "I will never forgive you!" I looked at her cold, hysterical face, turned my head back to the road, and slammed my foot all the way down on the gas pedal.