My Husband Defended His Assistant Over Our Baby

I sat on the cold tile floor of my bathroom and stared at the little white stick in my hand. Two pink lines. Clear as day.

Pregnant.

I pressed my palm against my mouth. The joy came first—bright and fragile, like something I wasn't allowed to touch. After five years of Eleanor's voice in my ear at every family dinner—"You can't even give my son an heir, what use are you?"—I finally had proof that I could. That I wasn't broken. That maybe, just maybe, this would be the thing that made Kellan look at me the way he used to.

I stood up. My legs shook. I caught my reflection in the mirror—hair pulled back, face pale, eyes too wide. I looked like a girl holding a secret too big for her body.

I dressed carefully. A cream blouse, tailored navy slacks, the pearl earrings my father gave me when I graduated Columbia. I tucked the pregnancy test into my purse along with the printed confirmation report from the clinic. The paper crinkled when I zipped the bag shut.

I didn't rehearse what I'd say. I didn't think I needed to. This was good news. This was the best news. Kellan would smile—really smile—and pull me close, and for the first time in years I'd feel like his wife instead of a stranger living in his house.

The drive to Hughes Enterprises took twenty minutes. I parked in the underground garage and rode the elevator to the lobby, my heart beating so hard I could feel it in my throat.

I pulled out my phone and called Kellan's direct line.

It rang twice. Then a woman's voice answered.

"Mr. Hughes' office."

Malia.

I kept my voice steady. "Hi, it's Rosie. Is Kellan available?"

Silence. Then a soft click.

She'd hung up on me.

I stared at my phone. The screen went dark. I told myself it was a mistake. A dropped call. I rode the elevator to the executive floor.

The doors opened. Malia stood at the entrance to the hallway, her hands folded in front of her like a hostess at a restaurant. She wore a fitted black dress and heels that made her legs look impossibly long. Her smile was polished and empty.

"Mrs. Hughes," she said softly. "Mr. Hughes is in an important meeting. He can't be disturbed."

She didn't move.

Behind her, the receptionist—a woman I'd met at the holiday party last year—kept her eyes on her computer screen.

"I'll wait," I said.

Malia's smile didn't falter. "It could be a while."

"I'll wait."

She gestured to a chair near the elevator. I sat. She returned to the desk three feet away and answered phone calls with the kind of efficiency that looked rehearsed. Her voice was warm when she spoke to clients. She laughed at something someone said. She did not look at me once.

I waited forty minutes.

The pregnancy report sat folded in my purse. I didn't take it out. I kept my hands in my lap and watched the clock on the wall tick forward, each minute stretching longer than the last.

Finally, the door to Kellan's office opened.

He stepped out, his suit jacket unbuttoned, his phone in his hand. When he saw me, he stopped. His expression wasn't surprise. It was irritation.

"What are you doing here?" he said. "I told you not to come to the office unannounced."

My throat tightened. "I came with important news."

Malia stood up from the desk. "I tried to explain the meeting couldn't be interrupted, Mr. Hughes."

Kellan nodded at her. "Thanks, Malia." Then he turned back to me. "You're causing a scene."

I looked at him. Really looked at him. His jaw was tight. His eyes were cold. He wasn't happy to see me. He was annoyed.

My hand moved to my purse. My fingers brushed the edge of the folded report.

I pulled my hand back.

He didn't deserve to know.

"Let's talk in your office," I said quietly.

He sighed like I'd asked him to carry something heavy. But he turned and walked back inside. I followed.

The office had floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan. The skyline stretched out behind him, bright and sharp in the midday sun. Kellan sat on the edge of his desk and crossed his arms.

"What's so important?"

I stood in the center of the room. My voice came out calm. Too calm.

"Malia is fired. Effective immediately."

His face changed. The irritation became something harder. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

"Are you out of your mind?" His voice rose. "She's my executive assistant. She runs this office. You don't get to walk in here and—"

"She hung up on me," I said. "She blocked me from seeing you. She treats me like I'm nobody."

"You're being irrational," he snapped. "You're jealous. You're embarrassing yourself."

Outside the glass walls, I saw heads turn. Staff pretended to work while watching us.

I looked at Kellan. At the man I married. The man I gave up everything for.

And I saw it clearly for the first time.

I wasn't his wife. I was his funding source. His convenience. The woman who owed him a debt he never intended to let me repay.

I picked up my purse.

"Goodbye, Kellan," I said softly.

I walked out. I didn't look back.

That evening, I came home to the penthouse. Eleanor was waiting in the living room, her arms crossed, her mouth already open.

"You were at his office again making scenes?" she said. "No wonder he can't stand to come home. You can't cook, you can't manage a household, you can't even give my son an heir—what possible use are you?"

Something inside me snapped.

I set down my bag. I looked at her.

"The penthouse you're living in," I said quietly. "I bought it. The car in the garage—Patterson money. The country club membership you use to humiliate me at every dinner party—mine. Maybe show some gratitude before I take it all back."

Eleanor's mouth opened. Then closed.

For the first time in five years, she had nothing to say.

I walked past her to the bedroom and shut the door.