“I just need a few more days, Marco,” I muttered, eyes glued to the pale linoleum floor, voice thin and fragile.
“Promise I’ll come home. Just… not yet.”
He didn’t argue. Just silence, then the line went dead. I slipped the phone back into my hoodie pocket like it had scalded me.
Armand walked in seconds later, all clean lines and cold indifference.
He didn’t even look at me properly—but I know he saw it. That little smile I’d accidentally let slip during the call. The first in weeks. Maybe months.
He didn’t ask who I was talking to. Didn’t need to. Maybe he already assumed it was one of the last people who still gave a damn about me after the disaster of our wedding. After Anabelle.
He picked up some files from the table, businesslike. Rushed. Like he was late for a deal—not visiting his wife recovering in a hospital bed.
“Something came up. I’ll drop by tomorrow.”
Tomorrow.
Then another.
And another.
He never came back.
Instead, I got updates the way everyone else did—through clips and stories, forwarded from friends who weren’t sure if I wanted to see them or if I needed to.
Armand and Anabelle, out on the town. Dinner at La Gilda. Private yacht party with fireworks.
Him, behind her on a white Vespa in Positano, arms wrapped around her waist like she was precious.
And then the real dagger.
I was sitting up in bed, about to sign my discharge papers, when I opened his profile.
There it was. Nine perfect squares. Golden hour by the sea. Him tying a scarf around her neck.
A picnic under hanging lanterns.
A bonfire where she sat in his lap, his arms all around her. And the center square—the one that made my chest cave in—
Her head on his shoulder, eyes closed, Armand brushing a kiss against her temple like she was the only girl left in the world.
I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just scrolled down.
Comments flooded in, syrupy and sweet.
“This is love.”
“Armand finally found his person.”
“They’re glowing—Anabelle deserves this.”
“The way he looks at her? Movie stuff.”
And then—Anabelle’s post. A 4D ultrasound scan, all golden and soft. The baby’s face, clear as day.
His nose. His damn jawline.
Captioned:
“Can’t wait to meet our little prince. Just like daddy already.”
Hundreds of hearts. Thousands of comments.
“A Armand mini-me!”
“That baby’s already winning in the genetics game.”
“She’s going to be such a beautiful mama.”
I sat there for a long time, phone heavy in my hands, heart heavier in my chest. Then I typed one comment under Armand’s perfect grid:
[Congrats. Hope this one sticks. And hey—best of luck with the bambino.]
Then I turned off my phone.
And I finally, finally asked for the discharge papers.
I was done being the ghost in someone else’s fairytale. Five minutes later, my phone buzzed.
Armand. I scoffed and ignored it. Like he ignored me. Like he ignored the baby I lost.
Thirty minutes later, discharge papers signed, bag over my shoulder, I walked out alone. Then fate decided to slap me.
Right outside the OB clinic, I saw them.
Armand standing tall in his tailored black coat. Anabelle beside him in designer maternity wear, glowing like the queen of the damn underworld.
A nurse at the front desk giggled as she looked at them.
“Mrs. Cavaliere, your husband is something else. Always comes with you, even warms the gel so it’s not cold on your belly.”
The waiting room full of pregnant women turned to her like she was some damn fairytale.
I froze. My hand moved to my stomach on instinct. There’d been a baby there once.
The day of the accident, I bled out on the pavement. I video-called Armand, crying.
But what I saw?
Anabelle, naked, smirking into the camera.
“Oh hey, Mrs. Cavaliere. Armand lost a bet. He’s tied up right now. Need something?”
I hung up without a word. He called back fast.
Real fast. And there he was—arms around Anabelle, looking like I was the dirt under his shoe.
“You always gotta be dramatic, huh Harriet? Petty as hell.”
Then came the knife:
“You couldn’t even keep your own kid alive. What good are you, huh?”
He scoffed. “Sometimes I think that truck should’ve finished the job.”
I bitterly smiled.
Back in the present, I tried to sneak past them, but Armand clocked me.
“What’re you doing, lurking around like a damn stray?”
I stiffened. “I wasn’t following you. Just passing through. Chill.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Wait.”
Anabelle tightened her grip on his arm like she felt the shift in his tone. Then she flashed me a sugary smile.
“Thanks again for the blood, Harriet. I probably would’ve passed out without it. You saved me and baby Cavaliere.”
Then she looked at Armand. “Babe, why don’t we give Harriet a ride home? Yeah?”
He smiled like she’d asked for the moon.
“Anything for you, princess.”
I needed to grab my stuff from the house anyway. So I got in the car. Silence choked the ride until something caught my eye—jammed between the seats. Lace. Black. Still damp.
Anabelle gasped like she didn’t just plant the damn thing there herself.
“Oh my God. How did that end up here?”
She turned to Armand, fake innocence dripping from her voice.
“Didn’t you say you handled all this?”
I didn’t say a word.
Didn’t need to. Their circus didn’t need another clown.
