The Number Above My Sweet Wife's Head Was 4

After passing out from working overtime for days on end, I mysteriously started seeing strange numbers floating above people's heads. After a bit of digging, I realized what the number meant: the number of abortions they’d had. When my supposedly sweet, gentle wife—who had never been pregnant as far as I knew—fed me chicken broth, the glaring number 4 floating above her head sent a chill down my spine. She had secretly aborted four babies behind my back. And worse? Not all of them were mine. "Babe, don't worry. He won't last much longer..." Who? Who's speaking? Pain... God, it hurts! A stabbing pain pierced my skull, jolting me awake from my nightmare. I opened my eyes through the haze of agony. What happened to me? I racked my brain. Right, I collapsed at the office while working late. Ever since I married Chloe, our financial stress had gone through the roof. Between blowing my life savings on our lavish wedding and drowning in mortgage and car payments, I had no choice. To pay off the mortgage early, I worked crazy overtime, desperate to bring in every extra cent. But just as the finish line was in sight, my body gave out. Burning the candle at both ends finally caught up with me. Thinking of all those news stories about people dropping dead from overwork, a wave of lingering fear washed over me. Still, I didn't regret it. Chloe was gorgeous, with curves that rivaled any Instagram model or celebrity. Even after we tied the knot, she remained sweet and devoted. She cooked for me every day and even drove to my office to drop off warm meals, worried I'd skip lunch. Besides, our house value had skyrocketed over the last few years. I hadn't lost out; in fact, I'd struck gold. Thinking of that, my aches didn't seem so bad anymore. I honestly felt like jumping out of bed and heading right back to the office! Rise and grind. The hustle never stops! Right then, I casually looked up and froze at the number hovering over the nurse’s head. She was checking my chart and taking my blood pressure. As she moved around, the number followed her every motion. 0? What did that mean? I rubbed my eyes, thinking I was hallucinating. When I focused again, the number was still there, clear as day. This time, I noticed numbers above the other doctors and nurses too. Most were 0, with a rare 1 here and there. Then I looked at the other patients in the ward. They had numbers too. What the hell was going on? Did passing out mess up my brain and give me visual hallucinations? Just then, the door pushed open, and Chloe walked in, carrying a thermal container of chicken soup. "Babe! You're awake! When did you wake up? How are you feeling? I brought you some chicken soup. Have some, okay?" Her tender voice snapped me out of my daze. I looked up at her—and froze. A number hovered above her head too. But hers was bigger, bolder, and more glaring than anyone else's. It was a 4. 4? What could that possibly mean? Seeing me space out, Chloe walked over, sat by the edge of my bed, and asked with concern, "Babe, what's wrong? Are you hurting somewhere?" A familiar floral scent drifted over. Snapping out of it, I shook my head, keeping my voice as normal as possible. "I'm fine. Just tired, I guess. Thanks for the soup, babe. Smells delicious." Chloe gave a gentle smile, opened the container, poured some soup into a bowl, and dipped a spoon into it. She moved with practiced grace. When she lifted the spoon toward my lips, she even gently blew on it so I wouldn't burn my tongue. Warmth spread through my chest. I opened my mouth, ready to take a sip, when the nurse suddenly barked, "He can't have that!" Startled, Chloe's hand jerked. The spoon dropped onto the sheet, splashing soup across the blanket. "Why can't he drink it?" Chloe asked, sounding suddenly tense. The nurse frowned. "Your husband has severe hypertension. Didn't you know? From now on, keep him away from high-fat, high-sodium stuff like rich broth." Chloe let out a long, heavy sigh of relief. I chuckled and teased, "What's with the face? Did you think I had some terminal illness?" Chloe forced a weak smile and changed the subject, bustling to clean up the spilled soup. I didn't think much of it at the time. Watching her move around, all I could think about was that glowing number 4 above her head. Once she finished cleaning, Chloe claimed she still had chores waiting at home and hurried off. I wanted her to stay a bit longer, but she rushed out so fast I couldn't even get a word in. Was she in such a rush because she left the stove on or something? Soon, my test results came back. The doctor said my dizziness was just triggered by a spike in blood pressure. They kept me for overnight observation and said I could go home the next morning. I bounced back quickly. Left alone in the room with nothing to do, I began wandering the halls, studying the numbers above other people's heads. Before long, I spotted a pattern. Every single man had a 0 above his head. And the closer I got to the OB-GYN wing, the higher the numbers above the female patients became. That discovery planted a dark, terrible thought in my mind.It was peak visiting hours, and people were flowing in and out of the OB-GYN clinic. I stood there observing for a few minutes before a nurse approached and asked if I was waiting for someone. "No, not waiting for anyone," I replied casually, then couldn't resist asking, "What are all these people here for?" A middle-aged woman in line nearby had a short fuse. Hearing my question, she snapped instantly, pointing right at my face. "What do you mean, what for? Are you saying I'm sick?!" I was taken aback. "Well, yeah. Why else would you be at a hospital?" Before the woman could blow her lid, the nurse stepped in to calm her down. The woman scoffed, rolling her eyes at me. "I'm here for a prenatal checkup! Ever heard of one?" It hit me. I looked closely at the number above her head. It was a glaring 2. "So... you've been pregnant twice before?" I blurted out. The woman frowned. "Three times! The first two didn't make it—had to get terminated... Wait, how the hell do you know that? Are you some kind of creep spying on people?" Terminated twice? So the numbers represented... abortions? That explained why every man had a 0! My mind instantly flashed to the 4 floating above Chloe's head. Did that mean she had four abortions? No, that made no sense! In all our years of marriage, we never planned on having kids. We always used protection, and she never once told me she was pregnant! A gnawing dread clawed at my chest. Desperate to confirm if my hunch was real—and praying to God it was just a hallucination—I acted on impulse. I grabbed another woman waiting in line, stared at the number above her head, and asked if she had aborted one child before. "Who the hell are you? Why should I tell you—" Before she could finish, I pulled a five-hundred-dollar wad of cash from my wallet and shoved it into her hand. Pocketing the cash, she looked at me with deep suspicion. "Yeah... how did you know that? I took pills to terminate a pregnancy years ago. I never told a soul. How could you possibly know?" It felt like lightning struck my skull. I stood frozen in place. The number really meant abortion count! Then... what about the 4 above Chloe's head? We had been married for three years. We never had kids, always used protection, and she never mentioned being pregnant, let alone having an abortion. Yet that number told me, in plain black and white, that she had gone through four! What was going on? Had our birth control failed without my knowledge? I wanted desperately to ask her, but the words stuck in my throat. I was terrified that asking would smash our marriage to pieces beyond repair. Chloe seemed to pick up on my strange vibe and asked gently, "What's wrong? Feeling sick again?" I shook my head, forced a smile, and took the porridge from her, swallowing it down in huge gulps. It was the perfect temperature, but inside, my gut felt like it was on fire. After finishing, I made up an excuse about being tired and told her to head home first. She seemed worried, but listened and left. I stood by the window, watching her silhouette disappear down the street, my heart tangled in knots. I couldn't live like this. I had to find out the truth behind that 4, or it would eat me alive. After agonizing over it, I decided to secretly check Chloe’s phone. Deep down, the one thing I needed to know was: Was she cheating on me? I was discharged that day and rested at home. That evening, while Chloe was in the shower, I wrestled with whether to check her phone. Right then, her phone buzzed repeatedly on the coffee table. Incoming messages. That was when I noticed she had left it face down.'Fuck, my back's about to snap.' 'You little slut, you couldn't get enough all night, could you?' 'And going bareback? Aren't you scared of getting knocked up again?' 'By the way, when is your husband gonna drop dead?' ... Just reading that preview made the blood roar in my ears. My face burned hot, and my whole body shook with rage. No wonder she looked so exhausted this morning with dark circles under her eyes. She spent the entire night in someone else's bed! An all-nighter! Trembling, I reached out to grab the phone, but the bathroom door clicked open. Chloe’s voice drifted out: "Hey babe, have you seen my phone?" I quickly locked the screen, handed it to her, and acted casual. "It was on the coffee table. You listen to music in the shower now?" "Of course. Showering with tunes sets the mood, you know?" Grabbing her phone, Chloe slipped back into the bathroom. I collapsed onto the couch, those texts replaying like a nightmare in my head. The filthy words, the dirty banter, and that final question—"When is your husband gonna drop dead?"—pushed my fury and terror to the breaking point. When was I gonna die?! I was young! Sure, overtime took a toll on my body, but I wasn't some decrepit old man with one foot in the grave! I fought with everything I had to hold back the urge to confront her. When Chloe came out of the bathroom, I pretended to watch TV. My eyes stared at the screen, but my mind was completely shattered. Chloe sat beside me, towel-drying her hair, and asked, "Babe, hungry? Want me to whip something up for you?" I shook my head, took a deep breath, and forced my voice to stay level. "No, I'm good. Not hungry. Let's just turn in early." "How can you sleep without dinner?" Chloe frowned. "What do you feel like having? I'll make it right now." In the past, I would have melted at her devotion. Now, all I felt was cold suspicion. Especially thinking about the line: 'When is your husband gonna drop dead?' I couldn't help but question her obsession with cooking for me. Could she be poisoning my food? No... that's insane... Chloe wouldn't do that, right? Even as I chanted those words in my head, tiny details from our daily life flooded back, suddenly screaming bloody murder. Whenever she cooked, she only cooked for me. We rarely ate home-cooked meals together; if we ate together, it was always dining out. When she made food at home, she never made a portion for herself, always claiming she’d already eaten. And yesterday at the hospital, a casual warning from a nurse made her shake so hard she dropped the spoon. If she had a clean conscience, why react like that? Despite my best poker face, Chloe caught onto my hesitation. "No appetite? Does something hurt?" she asked softly. Why did she keep asking if something hurt? Was she genuinely concerned, or checking on her handiwork? Should I confront her right now? No. Not yet. I needed hard evidence—like screenshots of those texts. "No, I grabbed a bite on my way back," I forced a smile. "It's getting late. Let's sleep." Chloe looked suspicious, but didn't push. She slipped into bed. After brushing my teeth, I lay down beside her, tossing and turning. Chloe wasn't asleep either. She lay with her back to me, glued to her screen. Usually, I came home so exhausted that I crashed immediately after showering. I never noticed what time she slept or what she did before bed. Now, every little thing screamed guilty. Maybe because I was still recovering, exhaustion eventually caught up with me. My eyelids began to droop. Suddenly, Chloe whispered, "Babe, you asleep?" My heart leaped, adrenaline snapping me wide awake. Realizing she was testing me, I didn't open my eyes. Instead, I let out a soft, rhythmic snore. Seconds later, rustling sounds came from beside me. Chloe leaned close. A soft touch brushed against my chest, but pulled away almost instantly. What was she doing? After waiting a few moments, I cracked my eyelids open a sliver. She was back in her original position, phone in hand. I slowly lifted my head, peeking at her screen. To my horror, the latest message in her chat was a photo she had just sent. In the photo, her top was pulled up, leaning against my sleeping chest, her face twisted in a sick, twisted smirk. She had taken it just seconds ago. "How's that? Like it?" she texted him.