After His Fiancée Killed Our Son

The lobby of Carr Industries smells like marble and money. Cold air. Polished floors that reflect the ceiling lights in long white streaks. I hold Charlie against my chest and feel his heart flutter under my palm like a trapped bird.

The receptionist looks up from her screen. Her lipstick is perfect. Her smile is not.

"I need to see Elliot Carr," I say. My voice comes out steady. I practiced it in the cab. "It's urgent."

She glances at Charlie. His lips are blue at the edges. His breathing makes a soft whistling sound.

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No. But he'll want to see me. Tell him it's Elia Stone."

She types something. Waits. Types again. Her smile gets thinner.

"Mr. Carr isn't available. If you'd like to leave a message—"

"His son is dying." I say it quietly. Charlie shifts against me. "Please."

Her fingers stop on the keyboard. She picks up the phone. Speaks low. Listens. Hangs up.

"Security will escort you out."

Two men in black suits appear from somewhere behind the elevators. They don't touch me. They don't have to. They stand on either side and wait.

I sit down on the floor.

The marble is cold through my jeans. Charlie makes a small sound. I adjust the blanket around him — pale yellow, uneven stitches, the one I made when I still thought we'd have time.

"Ma'am," one of the guards says. "You need to leave."

"I'll wait."

"Ma'am."

I press my thumbnail into my palm. The pain is small and sharp and mine.

They lift me by the elbows. Not rough. Not gentle. Just efficient. Charlie's head lolls against my shoulder. I try to keep him steady. We move through the lobby. Through the glass doors. Out onto the street.

It's raining.

They set me down on the pavement and step back inside. The doors close with a soft hydraulic hiss. I'm on my knees on the wet concrete. The rain soaks through my coat. Charlie's blanket is getting damp. I pull it tighter.

I call Elliot's cell. It rings once. Voicemail.

I call again. Voicemail.

Again.

Again.

Seven times.

People walk past. Some look. Most don't. A woman in heels steps around me like I'm a puddle.

Then I hear the camera clicks.

Flashes pop in my peripheral vision. Voices asking questions I don't process. A small crowd forms on the sidewalk. I don't look up. I count Charlie's breaths against my neck. One. Two. Three. Each one shallower than the last.

Across the street, a black SUV idles at the curb. The windows are tinted. I can't see inside. But I know she's there.

Haven Reyes.

I've seen her in magazines. At charity galas Elliot attended without me. She's beautiful in the way expensive things are beautiful — flawless and cold and untouchable. She's the woman Elliot is going to marry in four days.

The woman who called me two weeks ago to tell me I should disappear.

The woman who said, "He doesn't love you. He never did. You're embarrassing yourself."

I didn't believe her then.

I press my thumbnail deeper into my palm. The rain runs down my face. My hair sticks to my cheeks. Charlie's breathing rattles.

Three hours.

I kneel on the concrete for three hours.

My knees go numb. My hands cramp around Charlie's small body. The paparazzi get bored and leave. The crowd thins. The rain doesn't stop.

Then the glass doors open.

Elliot walks out.

He's wearing a charcoal suit. No umbrella. His hair is perfect. Two assistants flank him like bodyguards. He sees me and his face doesn't change. Not surprise. Not anger. Nothing.

He walks down the steps. Slow. Deliberate. His eyes flick to the black SUV across the street. Then to the few remaining cameras.

He stops in front of me.

I look up at him. Water drips from my chin. Charlie makes a soft whimpering sound.

"Elliot," I whisper. "Please."

He reaches into his jacket. Pulls out a folded piece of paper. Drops it onto the wet pavement at my knees.

A check.

I see the numbers. Ten million dollars.

"I don't know what you're doing here," he says. His voice is loud. Clear. Meant to carry. "We had a brief, regrettable involvement. It meant nothing. Take the money and don't come back."

He looks at me for three seconds.

His eyes are empty.

Then he turns and walks back inside.

The doors close.

I pick up the check with shaking hands. The ink is already smudging in the rain. I fold it carefully. Put it in my pocket.

I stand up. My legs barely hold me. Charlie's head rests against my shoulder. His breathing is so quiet now.

I get into a cab.

"Mount Sinai Hospital," I say.

The driver nods and pulls into traffic.

I count Charlie's breaths. One. Two. Three.

I press my thumbnail into my palm until it bleeds.

I don't cry.