His Pregnant Canary Demanded My Medical Exam

Summary

My husband, Damon Blackwood, had a standing quota with his little bird. The Canary’s Contract: twelve nights a month.

This month, swamped with work, he’d only managed eleven.

The little bird, Ainsley Shore, threw an all-day tantrum—no food, no drink, just pure, streaming, theatrical tears.

Damon, desperate to placate his mistress, came begging to me, the wife.

“Ellie, just a quick call. Explain to her that this month was entirely hers. Tell her I haven’t been near you—it’s just one sentence.”

He wasn’t wrong. Intimacy between us had been dead for years.