I knew what kind of man Elias was. I had known since the day I signed the marriage registry in an empty courthouse room.
Yet knowing the blade is coming doesn't stop the cut from bleeding.
Elias had slipped out before dawn without a single word. His scent still clung to the hall, but the man himself was already gone, lost to boardroom calls and whatever empire he chose over human decency.
At ten that morning, bare feet padded down the spiral stairs.
Chloe stood at the bottom landing, stretching like an overfed cat. My stomach seized. She was wearing my ivory silk pajamas—the only gift Elias had ever tossed at me for an anniversary he didn't attend. The lace neckline hung loose on her, showing red marks along her collarbone.
"Make me a matcha latte," Chloe said, tossing a gold compact mirror onto the dining table. "Oat milk, two drops of honey. Don't burn the milk."
I set my mug down on the granite island.
"Take those off," I said.
Chloe arched an eyebrow, leaning against the counter with an amused smirk. "What? The pajamas? Elias told me to make myself at home. He said everything in the master closet is fair game."
"They're mine."
"Everything in this house belongs to Elias, sweetie. Including whatever scraps he lets you wear." She crossed her arms, tilting her head. "I took a look through your bedroom earlier. So plain. So pathetic. No wonder he spends six nights a week working late."
"Get out of my kitchen, Chloe."
"You really don't get it, do you?" Chloe stepped closer, her tone dripping smug satisfaction. "He brought me into his bed right in front of your face. Last night made it crystal clear. You're an embarrassment. Sign the divorce papers and walk away with whatever small dignity you have left."
I didn't blink. I didn't shout. Instead, a hollow laugh broke from my throat.
Chloe’s smug smile faltered. "What's funny?"
"You think you're the first one to strut around this kitchen in my clothes?" I asked, looking her dead in the eye.
"Don't play games with me—"
"Two months ago, it was a French gallery director," I said, my voice steady and cold as winter iron. "She sat right on that stool, convinced Elias was buying her a brownstone in Manhattan. The month before that, an heiress from Chicago spent four days in that master suite. She even left her diamond earrings on his nightstand."
Chloe's jaw tightened. "Elias loves me. We have plans."
"Elias doesn't love anyone," I replied, stepping toward her until she instinctively took half a step back. "He uses women like fine cigars. He smokes them down to the butt, tosses them in the tray, and lights another. You aren't his future, Chloe. You're just Tuesday night's boredom. And by Friday, security won't even have your name on the gate list."
Chloe’s face flushed crimson. She raised a hand, her voice shrill. "You insolent little—"
"Touch me," I warned, "and I'll have the building staff drag you out onto Park Avenue in those stolen pajamas. Now take them off and get out."
She glared at me, trembling with humiliation, before snatching her compact from the table and storming back toward the elevator.
I gripped the edge of the marble island, closing my eyes as my legs went weak. The fight had drained the little energy I had left. My lower stomach throbbed with a dull, sickening ache.
***
At six in the evening, the front door clicked open.
Elias walked into the foyer, peeling off his charcoal overcoat. His expression was completely blank, as if the cruelties of last night hadn't happened.
"Get dressed," he ordered, not even pausing to look at me.
I stood by the parlor doorway. "What?"
"We have dinner with the board of Prescott Logistics in forty minutes," he said, checking the silver cuff links on his wrists. "Jonathan Prescott is old-fashioned. He likes seeing family stability before signing over supply-chain mergers."
"I’m not going," I said.
Elias stopped. His head turned slowly, steel-gray eyes pinning me to the floor.
"Excuse me?"
"You told me last night that I'm just a placeholder," I said, voice trembling with rage. "You paraded your mistress in front of me. Now you want me to play the happy wife for your business deal?"
He closed the distance between us in three long strides, towering over me until the air felt scarce.
"Listen to me carefully, Mae," he said, his voice dropping into a razor-sharp whisper. "You have one job under that contract. When I tell you to stand by my side and smile, you put on a dress and you smile. The Prescott deal is worth eighty million dollars. You will not jeopardize it."
"Elias, I'm sick," I pleaded, pressing a flat hand against my abdomen. "The doctor said I need rest. My body—"
"The clinic paper?" He let out a cold snort. "I told you to take care of that problem Monday. Until then, you act like Mrs. Thorne. If you cost me this contract, I’ll have my legal team tear your settlement into dust. You'll walk out of here with an empty purse and nowhere to sleep."
"You wouldn't."
"Try me," he muttered. "Twenty minutes. Wear the navy silk."
***
The private dining room at Le Cirque was suffocating.
Jonathan Prescott, a stout man with thinning silver hair and a booming laugh, sat across from us. Beside him sat two vice presidents, their glasses constantly refilled with high-proof bourbon.
"Elias, your wife is a quiet gem," Prescott boomed, raising his crystal tumbler. "In this business, a steady woman at home is the only thing keeping a man grounded. To partnership, and to family."
"To partnership," Elias replied smoothly, raising his glass.
Then Prescott looked directly at me, his glass still extended. "Mrs. Thorne? Join us. It's a special batch—distilled twenty years ago."
My stomach lurched. The sharp, burning scent of the alcohol reached me across the white linen tablecloth, turning my mouth sour.
"Thank you, Mr. Prescott," I said, trying to force a polite smile. "I'm feeling slightly under the weather tonight. I'll stick with water."
Prescott's thick eyebrows knitted together. A heavy, awkward hush settled over the table.
"A toast on an eighty-million-dollar merger with water?" Prescott chuckled, though his eyes cooled. "Come now, Elias. Is your wife superstitious about celebrating early?"
Under the table, Elias’s fingers locked onto my knee like iron clamps. The pressure was brutal, digging straight into the bone.
"Mae is just being modest," Elias said, his voice dripping with easy charm while his fingers squeezed hard enough to bruise. He picked up my untouched glass of bourbon and set it directly in front of my fingers. "She wouldn't dream of disrespecting our honored guest. Would you, darling?"
I looked at him. His eyes were hard stones, devoid of pity.
*Drink it, or I destroy you.* The threat hung between us, silent and absolute.
"Elias, please," I whispered, barely audible over the clinking silverware. "I can't."
"Drink the toast, Mae," he commanded, his smile never reaching his eyes. "Don't ruin my table."
Tears pricked the corners of my eyes. He knew. He knew what was growing inside me, and he didn't care if the burn poisoned it.
My hand shook as I lifted the heavy crystal. I pressed the glass to my lips. The burning liquid hit my tongue, harsh and scorching, sliding down my throat like liquid fire. I forced myself to swallow a large gulp just to make him let go of my leg.
"Wonderful!" Prescott cheered, slapping the table. "A proper woman of the house!"
Elias released my knee, leaning back in his chair with an air of complete triumph.
Ten seconds later, a violent cramp tore through my lower belly.
It wasn't just nausea. It felt as if a jagged hook had caught my inside, twisting hard. A cold sweat broke out across my forehead. The room tilted.
"Excuse me," I gasped, shoving my chair back.
The wood legs screeched against the polished floor.
"Mae?" Prescott asked, startled.
"Sit down," Elias commanded in a low, vicious murmur, catching my wrist. "What are you doing?"
The pain struck again, sharper this time, a blinding tear that drove the air completely from my lungs. My vision blurred into gray static.
"Elias... something's wrong," I choked out, clutching my stomach with both hands. "It hurts... please..."
"Stop making a scene," he hissed, his grip tightening on my wrist, trying to pull me upright so the clients wouldn't notice. "Pull yourself together!"
I couldn't. My knees buckled completely.
I crashed to the floor, my shoulder hitting the edge of the dining table and sending wine glasses shattering onto the carpet. Gasps erupted around the room.
Agony ripped through my core, hot and unrelenting. I curled into a ball on the red rug, clutching my belly, helpless tears streaming down my cheeks.
Through the haze of pain, I looked up.
Elias hadn't dropped to his knees. He hadn't reached out to touch my face.
Instead, he stood calmly above me, his back turned slightly to shield Prescott from the sight of my ruined body, his voice smooth and apologetic as he addressed his business partners.
"My apologies, gentlemen," Elias said smoothly, waving a waiter over. "My wife gets overly dramatic when she catches a stomach bug. Please, let's move to the lounge for dessert."
