My Husband Kept My Mother Sick to Control Me

The chatter at the Herrera Group charity gala was always loud, but in the restroom, it dropped to a whisper.

I stood inside a stall, smoothing the silk of my black evening gown. Outside, two women spoke by the mirrors.

"Did you hear about Ariyah Shaw?" one whispered. "She’s three months along."

"With Liam’s baby?" the other asked. "Are you serious? What about Elia?"

A quiet, dry laugh followed. "Elia just smiles and looks pretty for the cameras. She knows her place."

The restroom door clicked shut. I stayed inside for a long minute. My chest felt tight, like someone had wrapped heavy bands around my ribs.

When we got back to our penthouse, Liam tossed his suit jacket on a leather chair. He walked straight to the bar and poured two fingers of scotch.

I stood a few feet behind him. "Is she pregnant, Liam?" I asked. My voice was low. I had learned years ago never to raise it with him.

Liam didn't turn around right away. He took a sip of his drink, letting the ice clink against the crystal glass. Then he glanced back, his face smooth and completely relaxed.

"You have a roof over your head, Elia," he said smoothly. "You have your father’s name, and your mother has a bed in a private clinic. Be grateful for what you have. Don't ask questions you won't like the answers to."

He walked past me toward his study without another word.

I retreated to the master bedroom. I sat on the edge of the mattress and stared at the floor. My right hand moved to my left ring finger. I twisted the heavy diamond band round and round until the skin turned red and my hands stopped shaking.

***

Ariyah was young, hungry, and careless. If Liam wanted to replace me with her, I wanted him to see what she was really after.

The next afternoon, I went to a high-end restaurant in Midtown where Ariyah was having lunch. I had paid a handsome acquaintance five thousand dollars to sit at the adjacent table, strike up a conversation, and flatter her. I just needed photos of her flirting back, taking his card, proving she was just an opportunist looking for the highest bidder.

I watched from a quiet table near the back. The man slid into the empty booth beside her. Ariyah laughed, tossing her hair. She reached out, playfully touching his forearm.

I took out my phone. Before I could lift it, a large hand closed around my upper arm.

The grip was iron. My breath hitched.

Liam stood over me. His dark eyes were cold, stripped of any warmth. His security detail had clearly flagged my movements the second I booked the table.

He pulled me up from the chair. The grip was tight enough to bruise. Nearby diners paused, forks hovering in the air. The clatter of silverware died down completely.

Liam leaned close to my ear. His voice was soft, conversational, and chilling. "Don't touch my people, Elia. Ever again."

The entire room was staring. I felt the heat rise up my neck, but I kept my back straight. I didn't wince. I didn't plead.

"Excuse me," I said evenly to the frozen waiter beside us.

Liam let go of my arm. I turned and walked out of the dining room with measured steps. Outside, I stepped into a black town car and rode home alone in silence.

***

That night, Liam walked into the penthouse dining room. I had already set a manila folder on the polished mahogany table.

Inside were divorce papers, signed in blue ink on every line.

Liam didn't sit down. He picked up the first page, skimmed it for two seconds, and looked at me. His expression was calm, almost amused.

Slowly, deliberately, he tore the paper down the middle.

*Rrrrip.*

He folded the halves together and tore them again. He dropped the shredded white pieces onto the floor at my feet.

"You seem confused, Elia," Liam said. His voice was warm and measured, the exact tone he used when closing hostile takeovers. "Reed Capital’s remaining assets only exist because I keep them off the auction block. And your mother’s suite at Whitfield Psychiatric costs forty thousand dollars a month. Paid entirely by me."

He stepped closer, towering over me.

"If you want Miranda medicated, fed, and alive, you will remain my wife. You will wear the ring. You will smile at the galas. Do you understand?"

He turned and walked toward his bedroom.

I stood in the foyer, looking past him. On the wall behind his silhouette hung our butterfly installation. Hundreds of hand-painted porcelain butterflies, commissioned during our honeymoon in Santorini. Liam had told me then that I was the only beautiful thing he wanted to keep.

Looking at the delicate wings pinned against the stone, a cold shock hit me.

I wasn't his wife. I was a specimen in a glass box.

***

The next morning, I drove out to Whitfield Psychiatric Institute.

The facility smelled of antiseptic, fresh linen, and quiet despair. I walked into room 204. My mother, Miranda, sat in an armchair by the window, wearing a soft gray cardigan over her hospital gown.

Her eyes were clearer than usual today. When she saw me, she didn't babble or ask about my late father. She reached out and grabbed my wrists with sudden, shocking strength.

"Elia," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Look at me."

"I'm here, Mom," I said softly, sitting on the small stool beside her.

Her thin fingers dug into my skin. Tears filled her eyes. "Don't stay for me, baby," she begged, her breath shaking. "Don't you dare stay for me."

"Mom, stop," I said, trying to smile. I reached up and smoothed a loose lock of gray hair behind her ear. "Everything is fine. Liam takes care of us. The doctors are taking good care of you."

"No," she insisted, shaking her head fiercely, her nails biting into my wrists. "You listen to me, Elia. Leave. Promise me you won't stay for me."

A nurse stepped in with a paper cup of pills, and I gently loosened my mother's grip.

On the drive back to Manhattan, the city skyline rose against the gray winter sky. I kept both hands on the wheel. My mother had said those words before during her bad episodes, and I had always written them off as delusions.

This time, the words echoed in my head, loud and sharp. And for the first time, I couldn't brush them away.