The Day I Burned Our Wedding Photos Novel – When Callum Wexler brought his pregnant assistant home and asked me to “take care of her,” I made the stupidest mistake of my life. I exposed her in front of everyone—called her the other woman, shoved money into her hands, and “thanked” her for giving Callum a child.
That humiliation shattered her. That same night, she threw herself off the rooftop. After she died, I thought Callum would finally come back to our marriage, that losing her would wake him up and remind him he once loved me. But instead, he filled our home with women who vaguely resembled her—parading them through our bedroom, our living room, our life. Every night, I was forced to listen. And when I was eight months pregnant, he dragged me to the hospital, accused me of “endangering his child,” and forced an emergency procedure I begged him not to allow.
The baby didn’t survive. He looked at my tears like they were an inconvenience. “With what you’ve done,” he said coldly, “you don’t deserve to carry my child. You killed the woman I loved—and my son. You should’ve died with them.” I didn’t understand until the day I died that he had truly loved that woman. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day he brought his assistant home—back before the tragedy, back before the ruin.
This time, I wouldn’t fight for him. This time, I would let them have each other. And walk away forever. *** “She’ll be living here from now on,” Callum said calmly from across the foyer, one arm around a woman in maternity clothes. “Eliza’s six months along. She can’t move easily. Help her where you can. And don’t start anything.” The scene was painfully familiar.
For a moment, the old rage threatened to rise, but I swallowed it back. “Alright,” I said gently. “Take her upstairs and pick a room. I’ll have her things brought up.” My voice was steady, but my hands curled into fists until my knuckles whitened. In the last life, this was the moment I snapped—screaming, sobbing, clawing at the betrayal. He had shielded Eliza the entire time, holding her protectively as he glared at me. “Savannah Reid,” he’d warned, “if you so much as touch her or the baby, I will never forgive you.” Back then, I still believed I meant something to him—that Eliza Monroe was just a passing distraction he’d eventually outgrow.
I didn’t take his warnings seriously, convinced his heart was still mine. It wasn’t until the end of my last life that I finally understood he had meant every word. He really had fallen for the sweet, innocent little girl standing beside him. Now, seeing the same scene again, I forced myself back into the present and smoothed my expression. Callum’s brows twitched, as if surprised I wasn’t reacting the way he expected. Something in his eyes softened—barely. “Savannah,” he said, lowering his voice as though speaking to a disobedient employee, “Eliza’s going to need more help as she gets further along.
Just…get along with her. Don’t make things difficult.” His tone sounded like negotiation, but the command underneath was unmistakable. Before I could respond, Eliza tightened her grip on his sleeve. Her voice trembled sweetly, like she practiced innocence in the mirror. “Savannah, I’m really not trying to take anything from you,” she murmured. “Once I have the baby, I’ll move out.
I promise.” “Nonsense,” Callum snapped, feigning irritation as he pinched her cheek. “This is your home. Yours and the baby’s. You’re not going anywhere.” Eliza gave him a shy glance, then nervously peeked at me, waiting to see if I’d explode. Callum followed her gaze and shot me a warning. “Eliza and the baby will never move out. You—” “I know,” I interrupted softly. “Don’t worry.
I won’t ask anyone to leave. Both of you can stay as long as you like.” I had taken in everything they said. It was clear: bringing Eliza back here wasn’t some fleeting whim. He meant for her to stay. So I had already decided: This house, this man, this life—none of it belonged to me anymore. A home that small could never fit three parents and one unborn child. And between them, I was the unnecessary one. I sent the housekeeper upstairs to assist them.
But minutes later, she came back down, wringing her hands. “Mrs. Wexler…Ms. Monroe, she…she wants your bedroom.” I paused, only for a heartbeat. Then I nodded. “Clear my things out. She can have it.” “But ma’am—that room was your room. You and Mr. Wexler decorated it together. All those—” Before she could finish, a loud crash echoed from upstairs—the sound of glass breaking. I didn’t ask what it was. I simply turned and walked toward the staircase.