The limousine glided to a stop at the entrance of the Grand Ballroom. Through the tinted windows, camera flashes already punctuated the night like lightning strikes. I smoothed down my navy dress—simple, understated, forgettable—and waited for Vincenzo to signal that it was time to exit.

He didn't.

Instead, he leaned forward and pressed the button to lower the partition separating us from the driver. "James, let Dalia know we've arrived."

My stomach twisted as I realized she wasn't even in the car with us. Of course not. She was waiting at the entrance like royalty.

"Vincenzo," I began, my voice barely audible over the thumping of my heart. "Perhaps we should—"

He silenced me with a single glance—cold, dismissive, as if I were a stranger who had wandered into his private space.

The door opened. Vincenzo emerged first, his tall figure commanding attention even before the cameras could focus on him. I followed, blinking against the sudden brightness of the flashbulbs.

But Vincenzo didn't wait for me.

Instead, he turned toward the entrance where Dalia stood in her emerald gown, a vision of ethereal beauty bathed in golden light. Her hand rested protectively over her still-flat stomach.

"Dalia," he said, his voice carrying across the red carpet as he extended his arm to her. "You look radiant tonight."

She took his arm with practiced grace, her smile dazzling for the cameras. "Thank you for inviting me, Vincenzo. It means so much to be included in such an important evening."

They began walking the red carpet together, a perfect couple—him in his tailored tuxedo, her in her custom emerald gown. I trailed behind them like an afterthought, like an assistant rather than a wife.

"Mr. Anderson! Miss Myers!" The paparazzi swarmed around them, shouting questions. "Give us a smile!"

Vincenzo obliged, his arm firmly around Dalia's waist now. "Tonight is about celebration," he announced to the cameras. "About new beginnings and the future."

"Are you two officially a couple?" someone shouted.

Vincenzo's smile widened. "We're celebrating something much more important tonight."

I stood there, frozen, as flash after flash captured the moment—the moment my husband publicly claimed another woman while I faded into the background.

---

The ballroom glittered with champagne flutes and diamonds. I sat at our table, picking at my untouched salmon while Vincenzo commanded the room from the podium.

"Friends, colleagues, distinguished guests," his voice boomed through the speakers. "Thank you for joining us for this year's Anderson Foundation Gala."

Applause rippled through the crowd. I watched him—this man I had helped stand again through countless hours of therapy, through sleepless nights and stubborn determination.

"Tonight marks a special occasion," he continued, his gaze sweeping the room before landing on Dalia. "As we look toward the future of the Anderson legacy."

My fingers tightened around my water glass as I realized what was coming.

"I'd like to propose a toast," Vincenzo raised his champagne flute. "To new beginnings, and to the future of the Anderson legacy."

He turned, his eyes finding Dalia in the crowd. "To Dalia, who carries the promise of our future."

The room erupted in applause. Glasses clinked. Whispers buzzed around me.

"Did you know? Is she pregnant?"

"The Anderson heir..."

"Poor Adeline..."

I couldn't breathe. The room spun around me as nausea rose in my throat. I stood abruptly, bumping into a waiter who steadied me with concern.

"Mrs. Anderson? Are you alright?"

"No," I whispered. "I need air."

I fled the ballroom, pushing through the heavy doors toward the restroom. My heels clicked against marble as I rushed down the hallway, tears blurring my vision.

The bathroom was mercifully empty when I burst inside. I gripped the edge of the sink, taking deep breaths to steady myself.

"Running away so soon, Adeline?"

I whirled around to find Dalia leaning against the doorframe, her emerald gown shimmering under the bathroom lights.

"What do you want?" I managed, my voice shaking.

She stepped inside, closing the door behind her. The sweet facade she wore in public melted away, replaced by something cold and calculating.

"I want you to understand your place," she said, her voice low and venomous. "You were never anything more than a paid nurse, Adeline. Vincenzo only tolerated your touch because he was crippled."

I flinched as if she'd slapped me.

"He needed someone to wipe his drool and turn him over every few hours," she continued, her eyes glittering with malice. "That's all you ever were to him."

"That's not true," I whispered, but even as I said it, doubt gnawed at me.

Dalia laughed, the sound sharp as breaking glass. "Oh, but it is. And now that I'm carrying his child—his heir—your services are no longer required." She stepped closer, her perfume overwhelming me. "I'll be moving into the penthouse soon. The nursery in the east wing will be perfect for my baby."

My baby. Not our baby. Hers and Vincenzo's.

She reached out and adjusted my necklace with false kindness. "Don't worry, we'll find a nice little apartment for you somewhere far away from us."

As she turned to leave, her smile returned—the same sweet smile she wore for cameras and society pages.

"Enjoy the rest of the gala, Adeline," she called over her shoulder. "While you still can."

I woke to the ping of my phone. Squinting at the bright screen, I saw a notification from Instagram—Dalia had tagged me in a post. My stomach knotted as I opened the app.

There it was—a perfectly composed photo of Vincenzo's hand resting tenderly on Dalia's still-flat stomach. His wedding ring gleamed under studio lighting, a deliberate focal point. Her emerald gown from last night's gala draped elegantly around her, making her look like a queen surveying her domain.

"Reunited with my destiny," read the caption beneath. "Some loves are worth waiting for. #AndersonLegacy #BlessedAndGrateful"

Comments flooded in beneath the photo:

"Congratulations to the happy couple!"

"So beautiful together!"

"Finally! We've been waiting for this announcement!"

My fingers trembled as I scrolled through the responses. Each heart emoji, each congratulatory message felt like a knife twisting in my chest. Ten years of marriage reduced to nothing overnight.

I shouldn't have done it. I knew better. But something inside me—something that had been bending and bending for a decade—finally snapped.

"Is this why you destroyed a ten-year marriage?" I typed, my thumb hovering over the send button for only a moment before pressing it.

I set my phone down and walked to the window, staring out at the Manhattan skyline without really seeing it. The sun was rising, painting the city in gold. A new day. A new reality.

By the time I turned back, my comment had dozens of replies. Dalia's followers were attacking me with vicious comments:

"Jealous much?"

"Who cares about the help?"

"She was just a nurse, not a wife"

One reply stood out—a screenshot of my comment posted to another account with the caption: "When the hired help gets bitter. #Entitlement #KnowYourPlace"

I sank onto the edge of the bed, my legs suddenly unable to support me. The room spun slightly as I realized what I'd done. I'd given them exactly what they wanted—proof that I was the villain in their fairy tale.

---

The penthouse door slammed open with such force that the walls shook. I looked up from where I'd been sitting at the kitchen counter, still in my robe, to see Vincenzo storming toward me.

"What the hell were you thinking?" he demanded, his voice like ice. He thrust his phone in my face, showing my comment blown up on the screen.

"I was thinking that maybe someone should tell the truth," I said, my voice steadier than I felt.

"The truth?" He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "The truth is that you're jealous and petty. Dalia is carrying my child—my heir—and you're acting like a scorned teenager."

"I'm acting like your wife," I countered, rising to my feet. "The woman who spent five years helping you learn to walk again."

"That was your job," he snapped. "You were paid well for it."

The words hit like physical blows. Each one carefully chosen to wound.

"Delete the comment," he demanded, his eyes flashing with anger. "And apologize to Dalia for the harassment."

"Harassment?" I echoed incredulously. "She posted a photo deliberately provoking me—"

"Because she has nothing to hide!" Vincenzo cut me off. "Unlike you, who can't accept that your services are no longer needed."

I reached for his arm, desperate to make him understand. "Vincenzo, please. If you would just listen—"

He jerked away from my touch. "I don't have time for this. Dalia is waiting for me."

---

I followed him to the elevator, my heart pounding with desperation. This might be my last chance.

"Vincenzo," I called after him. "There's something you need to know."

He paused, his hand on the elevator button, looking back at me with impatience etched across his features.

"I'm pregnant," I said, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I've been trying to tell you for days. We're having a baby—our baby."

For a moment, something flickered in his eyes—surprise, perhaps even a hint of the man I once knew. But before I could hope, his phone rang.

He answered immediately. "Dalia? What's wrong?"

I watched his expression change as he listened, concern replacing anger.

"Cramps? How bad? No, don't move—I'm coming right now."

He pocketed his phone and stepped into the elevator without a backward glance.

"Your needs are insignificant compared to my heir," he said coldly as the doors closed between us.

I stood frozen in the hallway, one hand pressed against my stomach where our babies grew, unaware of the storm brewing around them.