Pushed From Ten Thousand Feet By Love

After Bradley made it big, I became the timid, cowering little wife in his circle.

At cocktail parties, his friends would sneer, "Is this the nanny you brought along?"

He never said a word. After that, he stopped taking me anywhere his friends would be. Until this weekend.

Until, to curry favor with his wealthy partners and a ruthless socialite, he forced me into a solo skydive—to "earn" his marriage proposal.

"I can't. I'm pregnant... I can't do this," I begged through my tears.

Not only did he refuse to help me—he sneered and pressed the sole of his boot against my chest:

"Don't try to fool me with that pregnancy nonsense. This is just exposure therapy. I will not marry a coward."

When I pulled the ripcord, the parachute never opened.

My parachute had long ago been swapped out for a solid steel counterweight weighing more than forty-five pounds in all.

I smashed into the canyon floor and was shattered to pieces. My unborn child and I died on the spot.

As a ghost, I watched Bradley laughing and chatting in the VIP lounge, mocking my "timidity and weakness."

My heart died completely that day.

Bradley—what will your face look like when you finally see that positive pregnancy test, and learn our baby was six weeks along?