I stole a married man from his wife and 3 kids. Love turned me vicious. His wife called, sobbing, begging me to stop. I spat, “Save your whining for someone who cares. He’s—”

A year later, I was pregnant and glowing. I came back from my checkup and saw a note on my door. I read it and my blood froze. It said, “You took everything from me. Now I’ll take everything from you.”

My breath catches in my throat. My fingers tighten around the paper, creasing it as my heart thunders. The hallway spins for a second. I glance over my shoulder, half-expecting someone to be watching me. But there’s only the soft hum of the elevator down the hall and the distant bark of a dog through a cracked window.

I fumble for my keys, shoving them into the lock with trembling hands, and slam the door behind me once I’m inside. Every instinct screams to call him. But I don’t. I sit at the kitchen counter, staring at the note. It’s her. Of course it’s her.

She always sounded so pathetic, so broken, begging him to come home. She even cried to me once, over the phone. I mocked her. Hung up laughing. And now… now she’s threatening me?

The baby kicks and I clutch my belly protectively. No. She won’t touch me. She won’t get to me.

Still, I can’t shake the chill crawling down my spine. I check the windows, the locks, the curtains. I even open the closets. Nothing. No sign of a break-in. But someone knew where I lived. Someone left that note.

When he gets home that evening, I show him.

His face tightens. “She wouldn’t.”

“She would,” I snap. “Don’t defend her. Not after everything.”

“I’m not. I just… she’s not stable.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You think?”

He paces, running his fingers through his hair. “We should go to the police.”

“And say what? That your ex left me a threatening note? You realize how this looks, right? The man leaves his wife and kids for a younger woman, she gets pregnant, and now she’s playing the victim. They won’t do anything until something actually happens.”

He doesn’t argue. He just stands there, jaw tight, eyes darting toward the window like he expects her to appear in the yard.

That night, I sleep with a kitchen knife under the pillow. Just in case.

Days pass. Then weeks. Nothing happens. No more notes, no suspicious cars, no strange phone calls. I start to feel silly. Maybe she just wanted to scare me. Good. Let her stew in her misery while I raise his new baby in the home she lost.

I have a maternity shoot scheduled. I drive to the studio in a flowy white dress, makeup flawless, belly round and proud. The photographer compliments me, says I look like a goddess. I post one of the photos online with the caption, “New beginnings.”

Hours later, I receive a DM.

Anonymous: “You really think you’ve won, don’t you?”

I freeze.

Then another: “Check your car.”

I rush outside, barefoot, heart pounding. My SUV is parked by the curb like always. At first, nothing seems wrong. Then I see it—the long, jagged scratch running from the headlights to the trunk, carved deep into the paint. And the word “HOMEWRECKER” scrawled across the windshield in red spray paint.

Rage and fear collide inside me. I call him. He doesn’t answer. I take pictures. I call again.

When he finally picks up, he sounds groggy. “I was napping.”

“You need to come home. Now.”

He pulls into the driveway an hour later, his face pale when he sees the car.

“This is getting out of control,” I say.

He nods, but he’s sweating. I watch him closely.

“You didn’t tell her where we live, did you?”

“No! Of course not. I changed my number, blocked her on everything. I haven’t spoken to her in months.”

“She’s watching us. She knows where I go. What I do. She’s obsessed.”

“We’ll get cameras. A security system. Whatever you need.”

The next day, the cameras are installed. I exhale for the first time in weeks. At least now I’ll see her coming.

But the attacks don’t stop.

My prenatal vitamins are tampered with—I find the bottle in the trash, empty, replaced with identical pills that turn out to be sugar tablets. The nursery window is found cracked open one morning, even though we never open it. One of the baby shower gifts disappears before I can unwrap it.

It’s psychological warfare.

And she’s winning.

One afternoon, I come home from grocery shopping to find the nursery door wide open. The crib’s mattress has been slashed open, stuffing pulled out like entrails. On the wall, written in lipstick:

“He’s still mine.”

I scream so loud the neighbors come running.

The cops finally take it seriously. They dust for prints, collect the lipstick, but no matches come up. No witnesses, no fingerprints. Just more fear.

He holds me that night, but I feel a distance growing between us. I see the guilt creeping into his eyes. He created this mess, and now he’s realizing he can’t fix it.

“You still love her, don’t you?” I ask.

“What? No. God, no.”

“Then why does she think you do?”

“She’s delusional.”

“Or maybe you said one thing to her and another to me.”

He flinches.

“I never promised her anything,” he mumbles.

My voice shakes. “But did you promise me?”

He doesn’t answer.

I don’t sleep that night. I just lie awake, listening. Waiting.

At 2:17 AM, the cameras send an alert. Motion in the backyard.

I bolt out of bed, grab my phone, and pull up the footage. It’s grainy, but clear enough—there’s a woman, dark hoodie, crouched near the back door. She’s cutting the screen.

I call the police, then shout for him to wake up. But by the time the squad car arrives, she’s gone. Vanished.

The cops review the footage, nodding grimly. “This is personal,” one says.

No kidding.

That week, I move into a hotel. I take only essentials. I can’t trust the house anymore. Can’t trust him, either. Every time I look at him now, all I see is the wreckage he left behind—and the storm he invited into my life.

I go into early labor at thirty-seven weeks. Alone.

He shows up an hour after the baby is born, out of breath, wild-eyed, holding a cheap bouquet.

“You weren’t answering your phone,” he says.

“Because I didn’t want you here.”

He looks wounded. “You’re the mother of my child.”

“Your second child,” I say coldly.

He shuts up.

They let me take the baby home three days later. I go back to the hotel, not the house. I still don’t feel safe.

Then one night, I wake up to a sound.

The baby monitor is on, glowing softly on the nightstand. I hear cooing. But it’s not my voice.

I freeze. Turn up the volume.

A woman’s voice is whispering to my child.

“Mommy loves you so much, baby boy. I’ll make sure nothing ever hurts you. Not like she did to me…”

I run into the other room. The crib is empty.

My scream rips the air open.

But then—just as I’m about to lose my mind—I see the hotel window. Cracked open. The baby’s bassinet beside it.

And inside, my son. Safe. Sleeping.

No woman.

No whispering.

I check the monitor. The playback shows static now.

I call the front desk. No one saw anything.

But that voice…

It sounded like me.

The realization hits like ice water.

She’s not just watching.

She’s inside.

Inside my life.

Inside my mind.

I take the baby and leave the city. I don’t tell him. I don’t tell anyone. I drive for eight hours until my eyes blur and my body aches. I find a quiet town, a tiny rental. I pay cash. I change my name. I go off-grid.

Months pass.

I heal.

The baby grows, healthy and strong. He smiles like me. He doesn’t remember the chaos, the fear. And slowly, I start to breathe again.

One morning, I check the mailbox. There’s a single envelope. No stamp. No return address.

Inside, a photo.

It’s me, asleep. In the new house.

The baby curled in my arms.

On the back, written in that same lipstick:

“You’ll never be her. But I’ll always be watching.”

I burn the photo. I reinforce the locks. And I swear—

If she comes for me again, I won’t run.

This time, I’ll make her disappear.