I was nine months pregnant, staring over the edge of an icy cliff in Aspen, when the terrifying reality finally set in. My husband didn’t bring me up to this desolate ridge for the view.

He brought me here to die. I was trapped with a monster wearing the mask of a loving partner, and the sudden, violent blizzard had completely cut off our remote rental cabin from the rest of the world.

Carter and I had been married for three years. To the outside observer, we were the perfect couple. He was a charismatic investment banker, always quick with a joke and a devastatingly charming smile. When I got pregnant, he seemed overjoyed. He painted the nursery himself, bought an absurd amount of tiny shoes, and insisted on this “babymoon” in Aspen to celebrate our final weeks as a family of two.

I thought I was the luckiest woman in the world. I had no idea I was just the final piece of his early retirement plan. The cracks started showing during the first day of the blizzard. The storm had rolled in faster than forecasted, dumping three feet of snow and knocking out our internet.

But Carter had a satellite phone for “emergencies.” That night, while he was outside trying to clear the generator vent, I went into his duffel bag looking for my prenatal vitamins. Instead, I found a heavy, leather-bound folder tucked beneath his clothes. Inside was a life insurance policy.

A $50 million life insurance policy, naming him as the sole beneficiary, finalized just days before our trip. Underneath it was a printed itinerary for a two-month luxury vacation in the Maldives, booked for one month after my due date. The passenger name wasn’t mine.

It was Chloe, his young assistant. I sat on the edge of the bed, the cold mountain air seeping through the window panes, feeling entirely numb. I knew about Chloe—I had suspected an affair for months, catching whispers and deleted texts, but he gaslit me into thinking I was just hormonal and paranoid.

But the $50 million policy? That was a death sentence. With the roads buried and the storm raging outside, I had nowhere to run. I couldn’t hike out in three feet of snow at nine months pregnant. I had to play along. I had to pretend everything was normal and pray for a way out.

For two agonizing days, we sat by the fire. He rubbed my shoulders, kissed my forehead, and whispered how much he loved me, all while I stared into the flames, knowing he was calculating the exact moment to end my life. On the third afternoon, the snow finally stopped.

The blinding white landscape sparkled innocently in the afternoon sun. Carter walked into our bedroom with a perfectly manufactured, relaxed smile. “Bundle up, babe,” he said, tossing my heavy winter coat onto the bed.