32 Weeks Pregnant, I Watched My Husband Bring His Mistress to Christmas—Then I Said, “Since You Brought Someone, I Brought Someone Too.”

Matthias fumbled desperately at his tuxedo pocket, his hands shaking so violently that his golden key ring flew out of his grasp and skittered across the concrete, landing in the puddle of gasoline near Fiona’s feet.

"Get it!" Mercer roared.

Fiona, her face contorted with pure, manic fury, lunged toward the keys with her good arm. "If I die, we all die!" she screamed, her fingernails clawing at the brass ring.

Matthias, finally moved by the sheer primal terror of his own demise, threw himself forward. He tackled Fiona, slamming her into the concrete floor. For the first time in his pampered, cowardly life, Matthias Dre fought dirty. He pinned her arm down, gouged his fingers into her grip, and ripped the keys from her fingers, hurling them across the room toward Mercer.

"Mercer! Catch!" Matthias screamed.

Mercer caught the heavy brass ring out of the air, turned to the master valve behind the drums, and jammed the largest key into the padlock.

*00:02:45.*

Two minutes and forty-five seconds.

The lock clicked open. Mercer threw the heavy iron chain to the ground and grabbed the circular valve wheel with both hands, throwing his back into it.

"Turn it clockwise!" I shouted, leaning against the cold wall as another violent contraction tore through my body. The pain was blinding now—real labor, triggered by the violent physical exertion and the sheer surge of adrenaline. "It floods the intake lines with halon gas from the secondary suppression tank! It smothers the vapors before the spark can ignite!"

The iron wheel groaned, rusted from decades of disuse. Veins bulged on Mercer’s neck as he strained against the metal.

"Come on, you bastard!" Mercer roared.

With a deafening *screech* of shearing rust, the valve gave way. A hiss of pressurized gas erupted from the overhead conduits. A dense, white cloud of chemical suppressant blasted through the cellar, enveloping the plastic drums in a freezing mist that crystallized the air and instantly neutralized the volatile gasoline vapors.

On the main console, the digital timer blinked down:

*00:00:10.*

*00:00:05.*

*00:00:01.*

*00:00:00.*

A muffled *pop* echoed from the blasting cap inside the drum—a tiny, contained spark that flared harmlessly against the inert chemical fog.

No explosion.

No fireball.

No collapsing masonry.

Silence descended upon the cellar, broken only by the hiss of the dying pressure valve, the ragged breathing of four people, and the faint, surreal sound of the string quartet playing "Silent Night" on the floor directly above our heads.

Matthias lay on the concrete, sobbing into his hands.

Fiona was curled into a ball, clutching her shattered wrist, staring at the ceiling with dead, hollow eyes.

And then, I felt the unmistakable, warm rush of fluid breaking against my ankles.