"Where to, lady?" the cab driver asked, eyeing her in the rearview mirror. She looked like a wreck-wet hair, diamonds on her wrist, panic in her eyes.
"New York-Presbyterian Hospital," Deliah said. Her voice was steel.
She pulled out her iPad from her bag. She knew Jere kept his location services on for his devices, a habit for recovering lost tech. She activated "Find My Device."
The dot blinked. It wasn't at a data center in New Jersey. It was at the hospital. Upper East Side.
The cab dropped her off ten minutes later. Deliah pulled her trench coat tight around herself. She bypassed the main lobby. She knew the security guards would be on alert for her now.
She walked toward the staff entrance near the loading dock. A group of interns was chatting, smoking cigarettes. Deliah spotted a white lab coat hanging over a railing where one of the smokers had left it. With a practiced ease born of years navigating medical school, she scooped it up and slipped it on over her dress.
She pulled a disposable mask from her pocket-something she always carried since the pandemic-and put it on. She walked confidently toward the keypad-protected door. She didn't know the code, but she waited, pretending to check her phone.
A tired-looking resident swiped his badge to enter. Deliah caught the door with her foot just before it latched, slipping in behind him. She kept her head down, her gait purposeful. In a hospital, if you looked like you belonged, no one questioned you.
She navigated the maze of corridors, avoiding eye contact, until she reached the service elevators. She pressed the button for the 13th Floor. Private Suites.
The elevator rose slowly, smelling of bleach and sickness. Deliah felt like an intruder in her own husband's life. She was the mistress of his reality, sneaking in to see the truth.
The doors opened. The hallway was quiet, carpeted in plush navy. It smelled of lavender, not antiseptic. This was where the billionaires died, or recovered.
She heard a familiar laugh down the hall. It was Jere's laugh-a sound she hadn't heard directed at her in years.
She crept forward, hugging the wall.
She saw Jere's bodyguard standing by a door about fifty feet away. He was looking at his phone, bored.
Deliah waited. After a minute, the guard turned and walked toward a coffee cart at the nurses' station.
She moved. She slipped past the empty post, her heart in her throat. She reached the door of Suite 1302.
The door was slightly ajar.
She peered through the crack.
The room was dimly lit, cozy. Jere was sitting on a beige couch, his suit jacket off, his tie undone. Next to him sat a woman. She was petite, fragile-looking, with dark hair cascading over her shoulders. Irina. She was leaning her head on Jere's shoulder, her eyes closed.
On the floor, a young boy-maybe five or six years old-was playing with the giant teddy bear Jere had bought.
Deliah felt a physical blow to her gut. It was a tableau of domestic perfection. It was a family.
"Jere," Irina said softly, lifting her head. "Thank you for coming. Leo was so scared. He kept asking for his papa."
Jere stroked her hair. His touch was tender, reverent. "I told you I'd always be here. I'm not going anywhere."
Deliah's hand gripped the doorframe. Her knuckles turned white. She questioned her sanity. Was she the villain? Was she the evil witch disrupting this fragile, beautiful scene?
Then, Irina moved her hand to brush a tear from her cheek. The sleeve of her silk robe slipped down.
Something sparkled on Irina's wrist.
Deliah squinted. The light from the bedside lamp hit the jewelry.
It wasn't just a bracelet, it was a signal that the marriage was finally coming to an end.
