The walk-in closet was a cavern of silk and cashmere. Vivian stood in the center of it, surrounded by clothes that didn't feel like hers. They were costumes. The muted pastels Julian liked. The conservative hemlines his grandfather approved of. The heels that were high enough to be elegant but not high enough to challenge Julian's height.
She looked at a row of evening gowns. Thousands of dollars of fabric, and she felt like a mannequin in every single one of them.
Flashbacks hit her. Julian smiling at her at their wedding. It had been a polite smile. A photogenic smile. She had mistaken it for love. She had been twenty-two, naive, and so grateful to the family that had paid for her education. She thought she could make him love her. She thought ten years of knowing him meant something.
She packed a small bag for work. Just the essentials. Her laptop. Her notebook. She didn't pack the ultrasound. That stayed hidden in the lining of her purse, folded into a tiny square.
She went down to the garage. She intended to take the subway, to disappear into the anonymous crowd of New York, but Julian was there. He was waiting by the black Maybach.
He saw her and gestured for her to get in. It wasn't an invitation; it was a command.
We're going to the same building, he stated.
Vivian hesitated. Her instinct was to run. To turn around and sprint back up the stairs. But she couldn't. She was still Mrs. Sterling. The papers weren't signed.
She got in. She sat as far away from him as the leather seat allowed, pressing herself against the door.
The car smelled of his cologne. Cedar and sandalwood. It used to be her favorite scent. Now it felt suffocating, like a hand over her mouth.
The car pulled out into the traffic of Central Park West. The silence was thick, heavy.
I don't want things to be messy, Julian broke the silence. He was looking at his tablet, scrolling through emails. He didn't even look at her.
Vivian looked out the window. The park was blooming. Life was happening outside. Inside, everything was dying.
I've always seen you as a responsibility, Julian said, his voice cool and detached. "A ward of the family. My grandfather left you to me to ensure you were settled."
The words hit her like a physical slap. Her head snapped toward him.
A responsibility?
She thought of the nights he had spent in her bed. The way he had touched her. The way he had whispered her name in the dark. He had made love to her. He had been her husband.
A ward you sleep with? she thought. The bile rose again. It was a rewriting of history. It was gaslighting in its purest form. He was trying to sanitize their marriage to alleviate his own guilt, reducing her to a charity case he had graciously serviced.
My grandfather wanted this union, he explained, his voice calm, reasonable. "He thought you were safe. Stable. Now that he's gone, you're free. You can find someone... more suitable."
Vivian clenched her fists in her lap. Her nails dug into her palms until she felt the sting. She needed the pain to ground her.
She pulled out her phone. She needed a distraction. Anything to stop listening to his voice destroying her life.
She opened Instagram. The algorithm, cruel and efficient, suggested a new account to follow: @SerenaChaseOfficial.
Vivian's finger hovered over the screen. She shouldn't look. She knew she shouldn't. It was emotional self-harm.
She clicked it.
The most recent post was from two hours ago. It was a photo of a hand holding a coffee cup against the backdrop of a rainy London street. But the location tag said "New York."
The hand was masculine. Long fingers. Clean nails. On the wrist was a watch. A Patek Philippe with a custom navy blue dial.
Vivian stopped breathing. She had bought that watch for Julian. She had spent six months tracking it down for his birthday. He had worn it once, said thank you, and put it away.
Now he was wearing it.
The caption read: "Back where I belong. <3"
Vivian looked at the likes. "Arch_J_S" had liked the photo.
It was Julian's private account. The one with no profile picture, the one he thought no one knew about. But Vivian knew. She had seen him use it once to check a competitor's feed.
Nausea rolled over her in a violent wave. It wasn't just the pregnancy. It was disgust. Pure, unadulterated disgust.
The car stopped in front of the Sterling Corp tower.
Vivian opened the door before the driver could get out. She needed air. She needed to be away from him.
I'll take the subway next time, she said. Her voice was hoarse.
Julian frowned. He looked annoyed. He interpreted her haste as a tantrum.
Don't be dramatic, Vivian, he said.
Vivian didn't answer. She stepped out onto the sidewalk and walked into the revolving doors alone. She didn't wait for him. She rushed past the security guards, past the receptionists who stared at her pale face.
She made it to the executive bathroom on the 40th floor just in time. She locked the stall door and dry heaved over the toilet, tears streaming down her face.
She was pregnant with his child. And he was playing house with his ex-girlfriend on Instagram while sitting next to her in a car.
