"Which man?" Damien asked, his tone dropping to a dangerous, flat timber.
I pushed the swinging kitchen door wide open and stepped fully into the dining room. Colette jumped back, her eyes going wide as she clutched her silver serving tray against her chest.
"I was at the hospital for a checkup," I said, walking straight to the console table near the entryway.
"A hospital?" Eleanor repeated from the head of the table. Her fork clattered against her porcelain plate. "Are you ill, Vivian? Or just finding new ways to avoid your household duties?"
"A routine review," I answered, keeping my gaze locked on my husband.
I unclasped my leather bag, pulled out a folded white paper, and walked back to the dining table. I slid the obstetrics appointment slip across the polished mahogany. It glided smoothly, stopping inches from his steak.
Damien didn't pick it up. He didn't even shift his weight. His dark eyes flicked to the clinic's letterhead, scanned the printed date, and then rose back to my face.
"You expect me to read your medical receipts?" he asked.
"You asked a question," I said. "I am providing the answer. The full file is in my bag if you require the doctor's notes."
Colette swallowed hard, retreating another step toward the wall. "But Madame, the man at the curb... he opened your car door. He smiled at you."
I turned my head and stared at the maid. "That was the clinic's valet, Colette. He was doing his job. Would you like his name? I can call the front desk right now and ask for his shift schedule."
The maid flushed deep red and looked down at her black shoes.
"Enough," Damien commanded softly.
He picked up his wine glass, completely ignoring the tension radiating through the room. He took a sip, then set the crystal down with a sharp clink.
"You'd better stay this clean, Vivian," he said.
"I am always clean," I replied, crossing my arms.
"See that you are," he murmured, picking up his knife again. He waved a hand toward the hallway without looking up. "Get out, Colette. Your gossip is entirely useless."
Colette scurried out of the room, her apron strings fluttering behind her.
Eleanor scoffed, dabbing her mouth with a linen napkin. "You shouldn't tolerate her speaking to the staff that way, Damien. She sounds like a fishwife."
"Eat your dinner, Mother," Damien said.
I stood there for another second, waiting for a dismissal, an apology, anything. Neither came. I turned on my heel and walked up the grand staircase.
Two hours later, the massive house plunged into a suffocating silence. I sat on the edge of the mattress in the guest bedroom, a sparse space I claimed whenever Damien decided to work late in his study.
My fingers traced the worn edges of a leather tool roll resting in my lap. I untied the thick string and let the leather unfurl across the quilt. Inside lay a single, broken wax-carving knife. The metal tip was snapped cleanly off, the wooden handle stained with old, hardened blue wax.
Nathaniel had given it to me three years ago. My older brother’s last gift before the car accident took his life.
I gripped the wooden handle, letting the rough texture ground me. The sensation pulled me sharply back to my eighteenth birthday. The porch lights had buzzed above us. Elias had stood there, his mouth open, ready to say something heavy. Something important. Before the first syllable even formed on his lips, Nathaniel bumped his shoulder and cracked a loud joke about Elias’s ugly tie. The tension evaporated. Elias shut his mouth. For the next seven years, he never tried to speak those words again.
I rolled the leather back up and shoved it under my pillow. The walls of the guest room suddenly felt like a cage pressing inward.
I needed to breathe. I needed the smell of metal shavings and graphite.
I slipped out of the guest room and walked down the dark hallway toward the east wing. The heavy mahogany door of Verline loomed at the very end of the corridor. My studio.
Damien thought he had confiscated the only key. He didn't know I kept a spare taped beneath the baseboard of the adjacent linen closet.
I crouched, peeled the small brass key free, and slid it into the deadbolt. The lock gave a satisfying, heavy click.
I pushed the door open and stepped inside, refusing to touch the light switch. Moonlight spilled through the tall arched windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the cold, stagnant air. My drafting table sat in the dead center of the room, looking like a ghost under its white sheet.
I grabbed the edge of the fabric and pulled. The sheet settled onto the floorboards with a soft sigh.
I sat on the wooden stool, resting my bare hands on the slanted wood of the desk. No pencils. No sketchpads. Just an empty, barren surface.
"Just for a minute," I whispered to the empty room.
I reached down and grasped the handle of the bottom drawer. It stuck for a second, the wood swollen from the damp air, before sliding open with a loud screech.
Inside sat a single piece of paper, face down.
I picked it up and flipped it over. The glossy surface of the ultrasound photo felt icy against my thumb. The edges curled inward, warped by time and humidity.
My eyes locked onto the small black-and-white blur in the center. Then they drifted to the white text printed in the top right corner.
11W.
Eleven weeks.
Everyone in my life assumed this baby had belonged to Elias. They judged me, whispered behind my back, and condemned me for a betrayal that never happened. But they were entirely wrong. It wasn't his.
A floorboard creaked in the hallway.
I stiffened, my fingers tightening around the glossy paper.
"Vivian?"
The overhead fluorescent lights snapped on, blindingly bright and buzzing like a hive of hornets.
I flinched, squinting against the harsh glare.
Damien stood in the doorway, his suit jacket gone, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar. His hand rested firmly on the light switch.
"What are you doing in here?" he demanded, stepping fully into the room.
"I just wanted to sit," I said, my voice catching in my throat.
"I told my lawyer to lock this room," Damien said, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the uncovered desk. "I asked for all the keys, Vivian."
"I found a spare," I replied, keeping my hands below the edge of the table.
"You lied to him. You lied to me." He took another step closer. "For what? To sit in the dark and pretend you're still running a business?"
"It's my studio, Damien. My name is on the deed."
"My name is on the marital assets," he countered smoothly, though his voice held a sharp edge. "Everything in this house belongs to me. Including this room."
"Then why do you care if I sit in it?"
"Because I despise disobedience," he said. His gaze dropped to my lap. "What are you holding?"
"Nothing," I said quickly.
"Show me."
"It's just trash, Damien. Old sketches."
"You don't hide trash," he said, holding out his hand. "Give it to me."
"No."
"I won't ask again, Vivian."
I moved to shove the photo back into the open drawer, but my elbow knocked hard against the edge of the desk. The paper slipped from my trembling grip. It fluttered through the air and landed face-up on the center of the drafting table.
Damien stopped walking.
His gaze dropped to the desk. He stared at the curled edges of the ultrasound photo, his eyes tracing the black-and-white image, then locking onto the bright white 11W printed in the corner.
He didn't blink. He didn't speak. He just stood completely motionless, his jaw locked tight as he stared at the proof of a child he never knew existed.
