When I came to, David was sitting at the edge of my hospital bed. His eyes were rimmed red.
"Where's the baby?"
He didn't answer.
"David, where's the baby?!"
He pulled me into his arms, his voice trembling.
"Ellie, please don't be upset..."
I lost it. I tried to get out of bed, tried to get to the delivery room.
He held me down by the shoulders, saying sorry over and over.
Then the nurses came. The doctors came. Every single one of them told me the same thing: the baby was gone.
Too small. They couldn't save him.
I didn't believe them.
I begged them to let me see him, just once.
No one would let me.
David said he'd already taken care of everything.
"Don't think about it anymore. It's not good for your recovery."
I spent the next year trapped in postpartum depression.
He stayed by my side every single day. He even handed the company over to a professional manager just to take care of me.
Everyone said he was a wonderful husband.
My phone buzzed.
A message from Shen Yi.
That woman's name is Corinne Henson. Don't do anything yet. Give me three days to dig up the full picture.
I deleted the message and looked up.
David was sitting across from me, watching.
"What's wrong? Doesn't taste good?"
"It's fine."
That evening, a friend request popped up on my phone.
The note read: Mr. Delgado's assistant... Corinne Henson.
The verification message said: Ms. Pruitt, I'm Mr. Delgado's new assistant. I may need to coordinate some work-related matters with you.
I stared at the name for a long time.
I accepted the request, then opened her social media feed.
March 27th. The day I'd had my prenatal checkup. David said he had an important meeting and showed up two hours late.
A photo of a coffee cup, captioned: The boss was in a great mood today. Bought coffee for the whole office.
In the corner of the photo, a pair of cufflinks glinted on a man's wrist. The same cufflinks I'd given David for his birthday three years ago.
February 21st. My birthday. David said he had a client dinner. I reheated his food three times before finally scraping it into the trash.
A photo of a bouquet of flowers, captioned: Someone said work is too exhausting. You have to be kind to yourself.
Corinne reached out, saying she wanted to learn about Mr. Delgado's personal preferences so she could better manage his daily schedule. She suggested we meet at a coffee shop.
When I pushed open the door, a woman in a white knit sweater smiled at me.
The smile was soft. The eyes were razor-sharp.
It was her.
The white dress had been swapped for a white sweater, but I recognized that face.
"Ellie! Over here, sit down."
Her smile was sweet. Her voice was sweeter.
"Thank you for coming." She lowered her gaze and stirred her coffee. "I just started at the company, so there's a lot I don't know yet. I was hoping you could help me understand Mr. Delgado's dietary preferences."
"He doesn't eat cilantro or scallions," I said, lifting my cup.
"Right, right, I knew that." She covered her mouth with a little laugh. "He also won't touch carrots. Apparently he was forced to eat them as a kid, and now he makes a face whenever he sees one."
She knew. She knew everything.
I set my cup down.
"Assistant Henson, you didn't invite me here just to ask about that."
Her smile faltered for a second, then stretched wider.
"You really are sharp, Ellie."
She leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs. The mask came off.
"I'll just say it, then."
"Ellie, don't you think whatever you and Mr. Delgado have... has run its course?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Exactly what it sounds like." She tilted her head. "There's no love left between you two. Instead of dragging it out, why not let go while you still have some dignity?"
"You're telling me to get a divorce?"
"I'm offering you a way out." She corrected me with a smile. "No job, no children, nothing to contribute to his life. What's the point of holding on?"
