My Pregnant Wife Called Me 17 Times While She Was Dying… I Rejected Every Call For My Mistress, And My Worst Enemy Ended Up With Everything

The silence inside the Garza estate was suffocating.

There was no music here. No laughter. No flashing neon lights. Only the heavy, damp chill of a sprawling, architectural monument built to display wealth rather than to harbor warmth. High ceilings vaulted into darkness. Massive floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over manicured lawns that vanished into the pitch-black void of the mountainside.

At 12:45 AM, Camila Garza woke up with a dry mouth and a heavy, suffocating pressure pressing down on her lower abdomen.

She was eight months pregnant. Her belly curved massively beneath her silk nightgown, a tight, heavy sphere that made every movement feel like an athletic feat. For weeks, sleep had been a stranger to her. Her hips ached, her skin felt stretched to the breaking point, and the summer humidity trapped inside the massive, concrete-and-glass structure made it hard to breathe.

Stifling a quiet sigh, she eased herself out of the king-sized bed in the master suite. Mateo hadn’t come home. He rarely did on weekends anymore, hiding behind the convenient excuse of “late-night board meetings” and “property acquisitions.” Camila had stopped believing those lies months ago, but the realization had long since hardened into a numb, hollow ache. She no longer cried about his absences. Tonight, she only cared about the thirst burning in her throat.

She padded out of the bedroom in her bare feet, navigating the dimly lit second-floor landing. The house was dead silent, save for the low, distant hum of the central air conditioning unit.

She walked toward the grand central staircase—a magnificent, curving sweep of solid white Italian marble that connected the upper sleeping quarters to the sprawling ground-floor foyer. There was a wet bar downstairs near the kitchen where she kept bottles of alkaline water.

She took the first step down, holding onto the polished wooden handrail with her right hand. Her vision suddenly swam.

It was a sharp, blinding wave of dizziness—a sudden drop in blood pressure so violent that the world tilted on its axis. Her foot missed the edge of the second step.

There was no sound to break the fall, only a sickening, weightless lurch.

Thud. Crack. Roll.

Her body struck the unyielding marble surface with terrifying force. Her shoulder blade slammed into the sharp corner of a lower step; her head whipped backward, cracking against the stone with a dull, sickening thwack; and she finally came to rest in a crumpled heap at the very bottom of the staircase, her legs twisted at an unnatural angle beneath her nightgown.

For a long, terrifying minute, the world went completely black.

Then, agony tore through her consciousness like a bolt of jagged lightning.

Camila gasped, her eyes snapping open, but the darkness of the foyer offered no comfort. A white-hot pain radiated from her lower back and exploded across her abdomen. She tried to move her right arm, but a sharp, burning agony shot up her shoulder—her collarbone was broken.

“Ugh... ahh God...” she whimpered, her voice trembling in the empty hall.

She blinked frantically, trying to clear the black spots dancing in her vision. As she shifted her weight to push herself up, her hand brushed against something warm and wet pooled beneath her hip.

She looked down, her heart instantly stopping in her chest.

Dark, thick blood was spreading across the pristine white marble tiles, soaking into the hem of her nightgown, mixing with the cool stone.

Panic, cold and absolute, clawed its way up her throat.

She placed a trembling, blood-slicked hand over her swollen belly. Inside, the baby—who had been kicking rhythmically just an hour ago—was thrashing in a frantic, erratic frenzy, as if trapped in a collapsing cage. The movements weren't normal. They were desperate, panicked contractions of a tiny life fighting for oxygen in a failing environment.

“No... no, please God, no,” Camila wept, her breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps.

With her left hand, she groped blindly across the floor. Her smartphone had flown from her grip during the fall, landing a few feet away near the base of a decorative bronze urn. Miraculously, the screen was still lit, though a massive spiderweb of cracks shattered the glass across the display.

With fingers slick with her own blood, she grabbed the phone.

Her contacts list was a blur of tears and smeared red. At the top of the recent calls list was one name.

Mateo.

Without thinking, she pressed the call button.

Ring... ring... ring...

Inside the club, miles away, Mateo was laughing with Valeria, his phone sitting discarded and silenced on a leather couch.

“The subscriber you have reached is currently unavailable or out of service...”

“Pick up... please pick up, Mateo,” Camila sobbed into the empty, echoing foyer, her voice breaking into a ragged shriek of pain as another contraction seized her uterus, feeling like a heavy fist twisting inside her core.

She hung up and dialed again.

Rejected.

She dialed a third time. Voicemail.

By the tenth call, the blood loss was beginning to take its toll. Her fingers felt like lead. Her vision was tunneling rapidly, the edges of the grand foyer blurring into a dizzying black tunnel. The pain in her abdomen was no longer just sharp; it was a tearing, catastrophic sensation that told her body was beginning to fail.

“Mateo...” she whispered, her voice barely a breath against the cold marble floor.

She tried to drag herself toward the heavy double doors of the front entrance, but her legs refused to obey her commands. They were completely numb.

And then, the terrifying reality of her situation settled over her with the weight of an avalanche.

The mansion was an architectural fortress. The walls were thick, insulated concrete and triple-paned glass designed to keep out the noise of the city. The front security gate was bolted shut with an electronic deadbolt that required a digital code only she and Mateo possessed from the inside or via their mobile apps.

No ambulance could get in. No neighbor could hear her screams. There were no servants staying overnight; Mateo had dismissed the live-in staff months ago to ensure complete privacy for his late-night visits from Valeria and his business associates.

She was locked inside a multi-million-dollar monument to her husband’s vanity, bleeding to death on the floor, while the man who had sworn before God to protect her was ignoring her calls to snort lines of cocaine and fondle his mistress in a VIP booth.

Camila stopped crying. Her chest felt hollow, sucked dry of air.

I’m going to die here, she realized. My baby is going to die inside me, on this cold stone, and nobody will even find us until morning.

A profound, crushing wave of despair paralyzed her. She closed her eyes, the phone slipping from her numb fingers, clattering against the marble tiles.

She pressed her forehead against the cold floor, whispering a broken apology to the life growing inside her.

“I’m sorry, my love... I tried. I’m so sorry...”

Her hand drifted across the cracked screen of her phone, which had lit up once more with a random notification, illuminating her bloody fingertips.

Her blurred eyes caught a name near the bottom of her contacts list. A name she hadn't dialed in five long, agonizing years.