Emily

The clock on the wall ticks. I check my phone for the twentieth time. No texts. No replies to the messages I’d sent to Malcom hours ago. And even worse, no missed calls. My chest feels tight, a familiar ache that has become my constant companion since the day Jason was born.

I already called the hospital. The receptionist’s voice had been flat, dripping with the boredom of someone who hasn't spent their evening imagining their child in a ditch.

She told me no seven-year-old boy named Jason had been admitted. I should feel relieved, but the anxiety only shifts, twisting into a different kind of pain.

I know where he is. He’s with Malcom. But I still can’t shake the unease. Maybe it’s because a part of me knew that if Malcom was "out," Monica would be the one holding the map.

My son was spending time with his father's ex.

I release yet another sigh, the sound disappearing into the vast, empty silence of the house.

I catch my reflection in the darkened window of the kitchen. I look worn out. My hair is pulled back in a messy knot, stray strands framing a face that looks sallow and drained under the harsh fluorescent lights. I don't recognize the woman staring back at me. I look at my hands—unpolished.

This has become my look for the past few years. Tired. Gray. Invisible.

The dinner I spent two hours preparing sits on the table, cold and untouched. The steam has long since vanished, leaving the specialized broth—the one I brewed specifically for Jason’s sensitive stomach—looking like a stagnant, oily pool.

Where was my family?

Then, I hear it. The crunch of gravel in the driveway. The sound of high-pitched giggling followed by Malcom’s deep, effortless rumble of laughter.

They’re home.

I force a smile onto my face, trying to swallow the lump of resentment in my throat. I push the door open just as they walk in, the cool night air rushing past them like a breath of fresh life I wasn't invited to share.

"Finally. Jason," I say, my voice trembling slightly despite my best efforts to sound calm. "How are you? How’s your head? Do you feel dizzy?"

I reach out to brush the hair from his forehead, wanting to feel his skin, to check for the tell-tale heat of a recurring fever. Jason flinches away from my touch as if I’m something unpleasant.

"We had so much fun with Monica, Mom!" Jason beams, his eyes bright in a way they never are when he’s sitting across from me at the dinner table. "She took us to the park and she let me ride the big bike. We went on a mini hike and I even ate pizza..."

"Pizza?" The word feels like a lead to my stomach. "Jason, you know you can't eat that. Your stomach—the doctor said the inflammation—"

"I made dinner," I interrupt myself, gesturing toward the table with a hand that won't stop shaking. "I made the steamed vegetables and the broth. The one that helps your digestion, Jason. I spent all afternoon on it."

Jason groans, his small face twisting into an expression of pure, unadulterated exasperation.

"That stuff again? I'm not hungry. Monica’s food actually tasted good. The meat was a bit spicy, but she said I was big enough to handle it. I liked it."

Monica. Monica again. Not only did she have a permanent place in my husband's history, she had built a fortress in my son’s heart.

My heart lurches. I look past him to Malcom, who is leaning against the doorframe, watching me with an unreadable, stony expression. His eyes are cold, devoid of the warmth I just heard in his laughter seconds ago.

I had to just let this slide. As usual. If I fought, I was the villain.

Then, I see it. As Jason pulls off his backpack, the sleeve of his shirt shifts. A dark, purplish bruise is blooming on his forearm, stark against his pale skin.

"Did you get hurt?" I’m on my knees in an instant, my hands reaching for him. "Jason, let me see. Did you fall? Malcom, why didn't anyone call me?!" I demand, my gaze snapping up to my husband.

"Stop, Mom!" Jason shoves my hands away. The force of the rejection sends me back on my heels. "It’s fine. I’m fine. I really am. Monica already checked it and she said I was a brave boy. Ugh! You’re so annoying!"

He storms off toward his bedroom, his small footsteps thundering down the hallway like a rhythmic rejection of everything I am. I stay on the floor, stunned, the cold tile pressing into my knees through my leggings.

"What happened?" I ask, turning to Malcom. My voice is thick. "How did he get hurt?"

"I should be asking you that," Malcom says. His voice is a low, dangerous drawl that makes my skin crawl. "You just had to ruin a perfect evening with your exaggeration. You can't even let him through the door without suffocating him."

I blink, the sting of his words hitting harder than the shove from my son.

"Exaggeration? Malcom, you took our son after school and didn't tell me where you were going. I was left in the dark for hours. He has school tomorrow. He needs his medication. He needs to rest properly, not be out eating spicy food and getting bruised."

"Our son," Malcom corrects, his jaw tightening until a muscle leaps in his cheek. ".. was with me. He was safe."

" Yes, with you and your company," I bite back helplessly. "And he’s hurt. Again!"

"You’re doing it again." Malcom sighs, a sound full of deep weariness and visceral disgust.

"Excuse me?" I mutter, blinking back the hot prickle of tears that I refuse to let fall.

"This, Emily! This! This nagging. This constant, hovering presence. It’s wearing me out. It’s bothersome. He’s fine, Emily. For goodness sake, let him breathe a little. He's not dying, no matter how much you want to pretend he is."

"Malcom?" I whisper. My voice sounds small, pathetic, even to my own ears.

"Have a good night," he says, turning his back on me.

He walks away, leaving me alone in the kitchen with a meal no one wants and a heart that is cracking open in the silence.

I stand there for what feels like an eternity. Finally, I drag the apron off my shoulder. The broth had taken four hours to simmer. It was meant to keep him out of the hospital. But it was no big deal. Nothing I did mattered unless it was "bothersome."

I walk toward Jason's bedroom to check on him one last time. The door is ajar. I stop when I hear their voices—the soft, intimate tone they never use with me anymore.

"Did Mom nag you too?" Jason asks his dad.

Malcom chuckles. It’s a dry, shared sound between men. "She did, didn’t she? It's alright, Champ."

"I hate it when she does that," Jason’s voice is loud, clear, and dripping with a disdain that no seven-year-old should feel for his mother.

"She’s always, always nagging. She’s not fun like Monica. Monica is pretty and she likes to do things. But Mom... she's just..." He pauses, searching for the word. "She's just... dull."

"Maybe she’s just upset we didn't bring her along," Malcom says. "I mean, we didn't tell her where we were going. I did that because you told me not to, remember?"

The floor feels like it’s shifting beneath me. My own son had told his father to hide their lives from me.

"No!" Jason says quickly. "It’s good she didn't know. You know how she is, Dad. She’s not sporty. If we brought her hiking, she’d just slow us down. She’d get worried about the flies. Get worried about the dirt and the germs and nag and dote on me until I wanted to scream. She's fat and boring."

I freeze. The words slice through the air, small and lethal.

*Fat. Boring. Slow.*

He doesn't know. He’s only seven. He doesn't know that I had a heart condition while I carried him. He doesn't know about the accident that left me shattered on the pavement, or the months of bedrest that ruined my metabolism, or the way my body literally broke itself just to make sure he arrived safely into this world.

I used to be on the runway. I used to be the woman people turned to look at in awe. Now, I am a nuisance to the person I gave my health, my beauty, and my career for.

"Your mom had you," Malcom says, his voice unusually soft. "She made sacrifices. Women go through changes bringing kids into the world, you know?"

For a second, a spark of hope flickers. For the first time, Malcom is speaking on my behalf.

"Whatever," Jason replies, his voice dismissive. "She’s not the first person to have a baby, is she? What about Mallory’s mom? She’s still beautiful and she has three kids. She doesn't act like she's eighty or nags all the time."

I turn away, unable to listen to any more.

I walk back to the kitchen and start scraping the cold food into the trash. The physical pain in my chest is so sharp I have to lean against the counter to keep from falling.

They’re right. I am different now. But as I look at the gray, sallow reflection in the window, I realize the biggest change isn't my body.

It's the woman I had to become because that was what my family needed.

Emily

"Jason likes her. And she’s my friend," Malcom replied simply, not even looking up from his screen. He said it as if it were the most natural thing in the world—that his ex-girlfriend should be the primary architect of our son’s life.

Now, sitting in the same room, the silence is deafening.

"Yes, Monica, you don’t have to worry about anything. And thank you—thanks for today," Malcom says softly into the phone. His voice has a cadence I haven’t heard in months. It’s light. It’s appreciative. It’s *alive*.

The call drops.

I heave a sigh of relief. Most times they'd talk far into the night, not today apparently.

His phone dings. My relief is short lived.

I watch from the periphery as he sends and replies to messages, a small, involuntary smile plastered on his face. My husband is texting his first love after spending the entire day with her and our son.

We are three feet apart on the same sofa, but it feels like we are worlds apart, separated by a chasm I no longer have the strength to cross.

Ever since Monica Storm returned six months ago, my careful routine hasn't just ruptured. It has fractured.

In our circle, her name was always whispered like a legend.

She was the woman Malcom was supposed to marry. I was the nobody—the woman with a "runway body" fit to be an escort or a mistress, but never the wife of an influential Grayson man. I didn't have the Ivy League degree or the pedigree. I just had a face that looked good on a billboard and a heart that was too easily bruised.

To the world, I was a home-wrecker.

A drunk mistake had given us Jason. He wasn’t planned.

Malcom hadn’t been in love with me. When his family discovered I was carrying their heir, they had pressured him relentlessly. They didn't want their kids born out of wedlock.

There was no real proposal, just sudden wedding preparations and a cold ring fitting where Malcom had looked at me and said, “You wanted this, didn’t you?”

The words still burned. Get a baby and secure yourself a diamond ring. That was how the world saw our story. I hated thinking of Jason as a “mistake,” because he was the most beautiful thing that had ever happened to me. But the label stuck.

I thought he would divorce me the moment Jason was born. But then, word came that Monica had married someone else abroad. A semblance of peace settled over us.

Malcom was an attentive father. He was a decent husband—affectionate during my high-risk pregnancy, staying by my side through the night terrors and the complications. For a few years, I let myself believe that the love he had for our son had finally extended to me.

But the past six months have proven that I was just a placeholder.

The other night, I tried.

I dressed in a silk slip, the kind that used to make him linger in the doorway. I put on a soft, floral perfume, the one he once said reminded him of spring. I waited for him in the bedroom, my heart racing with a desperate hope.

He walked in, glanced at me for less than a second, and then picked up his phone.

"You're still up?" he asked, his voice flat. He didn't even notice the perfume. He didn't see the effort. He just climbed into bed, turned his back to me, and stared at his screen until he fell asleep.

The rejection wasn't loud. it was a quiet, steady erosion of my soul.

I gave up everything for this.

These days, the only creative outlet I had left was designing. Late at night or while Jason did his homework or slept, I would scribble sketches and send them off. My team handled the rest. It was the only piece of my old self I could keep without risking my son.

Because Jason’s health had always come first. He was a sickly baby, fragile and prone to complications

We tried nannies once.

I remember the nanny we had briefly—the one who overlooked a simple instruction while I was away for just four hours.

Jason had ended up in the ER, his tiny body struggling for air. The Graysons would have skewed me alive if anything happened to their precious grandson. They already blamed me for the accident during my pregnancy. They thought I was reckless with their legacy.

I had seen what happened to other mothers. One maid had been charged with negligence after a child was left permanently crippled. The mother’s anguished screams still haunted me — how she blamed herself for not being present. But no punishment or money could undo the damage done.

I refused to let that be my story. So I poured everything into my son and my marriage. I stayed available at his every beck and call. I told myself that one day, when he was older and healthier, he would appreciate everything I had sacrificed.

But the words from earlier ring in my ears: *“She’s not the first person to have a baby, is she?”*

Maybe Malcom is right. Jason is older now. He’s healthier.

I look at my sketchbook on the nightstand, hidden under a stack of Jason’s medical journals.Maybe it's time to see if the life I put on hold still has a place for me.

​I am probably just being emotional.

​It’s a mantra I repeat as I move through the kitchen, the next morning, the words looping in my mind like a prayer. It was probably no big deal. The tension, the coldness, the way Jason spoke to me—it was all just a phase. Soon, the dust would settle. Monica would fade back into the background, and we would return to our quiet, predictable routine.

​That morning, I stand in front of Malcom, my fingers steady as I help him smooth his tie.

​He is so handsome it hurts to look at him sometimes. He has that roguish edge, a sharpness in his jaw and a depth in his eyes that Jason inherited perfectly. I fell in love with those features long ago, and despite everything, I am still in love with them now.

​I finish with the silk knot and let my hands linger on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart through the expensive fabric of his suit. I look up, searching his face, desperate for a spark of the man who used to hold me when the world felt too heavy.

​"Aren’t you forgetting something?" I whisper, leaning in just a fraction.

​Malcom hesitates. For a heartbeat, his gaze meets mine, and I think I see a flicker of recognition. But then, his expression shifts, turning into something brittle and distant.

​"Does it matter?" he asks, his voice devoid of any warmth. "Jason’s not even here to watch it."

​The words are a bucket of ice water. Before I can find my voice to reply, he spins around, grabs his tablet from the counter, and strides out of the house. The front door clicks shut with a finality that leaves the foyer feeling cavernous.

​I stand there, my hands still raised in mid-air, grasping at nothing.

​He was right. Our routine had always been a performance. Every morning, like clockwork, he would plant a brief, tender kiss on my forehead. We did it for Jason. We wanted to give him a normal, happy home. We wanted him to grow up seeing affection so that love and expression of affection wouldn't feel like a foreign language to him.

​But as the years passed, the performance had bled into reality.

​Malcom’s kisses had started to linger. He would hold me a few seconds longer than was strictly functional for a "happy family" display. Some mornings, his hand would travel secretly, a playful grope or a quick tickle that made me gasp and laugh while Jason was busy with his cereal. What started as acting had become real. We had adjusted to each other, our bodies and lives weaving together until the seams were invisible.

​We were perfect. We were happy.

​But as I stare at the closed door, I realize that the "performance" wasn't just for Jason. It was the glue holding Malcom to me.

​The silence in the house is heavy, pressing against my eardrums. I look down at my wedding ring, the diamond glinting under the hallway lights.

​He didn't even try to fake it today.

​The realization settles in my gut, cold and heavy.

“Mom… what’s an illegitimate bastard?”

Jason’s question came out of nowhere one lazy afternoon while he sat at the dining table doing his homework. I was folding laundry nearby and the words hit me like ice water. I gasped sharply, nearly dropping the shirt in my hands.

“Jason!” My voice came out higher than I intended. “Where did you hear that word from?”

He looked up at me with those innocent yet far-too-perceptive eyes, Malcom’s eyes. “Simon’s grandma came to school today. She and his mom had a big argument outside the gate. She called Simon that. Everyone heard it.”

*Heavens.* Could people not be more careful with the things they said around children? I pressed a hand to my chest, trying to steady my breathing. Jason was only seven, but he was sharp. Scarily intelligent. There was no point lying to him — he would only dig deeper until he found the truth.

I knelt down beside his chair so we were eye-level. “Sweetheart, that’s a very bad word. It’s cruel and hurtful, and no one should ever use it. It’s not something nice people say.”

That’s not it," he says, his small brow furrowing with impatience. He looks so much like Malcom in that moment it makes my chest ache. "Simon said it’s because his dad got married to someone else and not his mom. He said it means you don't belong."

My throat tightened. I could see the wheels turning in his young mind, connecting dots I had desperately hoped would stay hidden for a few more years. I took a slow breath and chose my words carefully.

“An illegitimate child… is a child whose parents weren’t married when they were born. Some people use it as an insult, but it’s not the child’s fault. It’s complicated adult stuff. But it doesn't change who the child is. It doesn't make them any less loved or important."

Jason was quiet for a moment, processing. Then his small face twisted with sudden realization.

“So… how do we avoid it?”he asked his voice dropping by an octave.

“Well,” I said gently, “mom and dad have to be married before the baby comes.”

His expression changed instantly. His brows drew together, and his mouth turned down. Without warning, he pushed his chair back with a loud scrape and bolted from the room.

“Jason!”

I followed him quickly, heart hammering. He had climbed onto the window seat in the living room, curling into himself, arms wrapped tightly around his knees.

“It’s all my fault!” he cried, voice cracking. “I would have been illegitimate too, wouldn’t I?”

“Jason…” I whispered, moving closer but stopping when he flinched.

“That’s why Dad married you, isn’t it?” His words tumbled out faster, laced with pain. “He didn’t want to be separated from the woman he loved, but he had to because of me. Because he didn’t want me to be like Simon! "

The room seemed to tilt. I felt the blood drain from my face. Where had he heard these things? Who had been feeding my child these poisonous ideas?

“Jason, come down from there right now,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady even as my hands trembled.

“I wish I’d never been born!” he shouted, tears spilling down his cheeks. “That way Dad could be with the woman he loved! Monica! She’s the one he really loves, right? If I wasn’t here, he wouldn’t have had to marry you!”

I stood frozen in horror, staring at my seven-year-old son as he broke apart in front of me.

*What had they been feeding my own child?*

The woman he loved. Monica. The words echoed in my head like a curse.

“Jason, please…” My voice broke as I took another step toward him. “You are so loved. You are wanted. Never doubt that.”

But he turned his face away, pressing it against his knees, and whispered again, “I wish I’d never been born.”

****

You and Monica must have said something," I told him, my voice barely a whisper, though it felt like a scream in the stillness.

"You acted in a way that was improper. You let him see it. My heart was shattering, Malcom. It’s shattering now."

​I looked at him, searching for a flicker of guilt, but his face was a mask of cold indifference. There had to have been nuances—stolen glances, a lingering touch, a certain softness in his voice when he spoke to her that he never used with me. There must have been something that showed they were still in love.

This whole time, I had been deceiving myself, building a home on a foundation of lies.

​My heart was hurting with a physical, stabbing intensity, and I couldn't even cry. I had no one to turn to.

To the world, this was well-deserved. I was the girl who had "trapped" a Grayson. Even Malcom’s sister had cornered me at the last gala, whispering with a sharp, venomous smile that my time was "rounding up for good."

​"Oh, please stop it! Just stop it!" Malcom roared, slamming his palm against the mahogany desk. The sound made me flinch. "You just want to pin this on Monica. You want to blame her for every single thing that goes wrong in this house."

​"Where else could he have picked it up from if not you?" I shot back, my voice rising. "My son is spending most of his free time with his father and his father’s ex-girlfriend. Where else would a child hear that he was a mistake? That his father belongs with someone else?"

​"Anywhere!" Malcom spat, his eyes flashing with a cruel light. "It’s not really a secret, is it? Half of Knoxx City knows the truth. I bedded you by mistake, Emily. This marriage was what you wanted because you knew my family. You knew the Graysons would never let their own blood be born out of wedlock. You played your cards, and you won the ring. Don't act the victim now."

​"Malcom," I whispered, the name feeling like ash in my mouth.

​He didn't look back. He didn't take it back. He just turned to his monitor, dismissing me as if I were a servant who had overstayed her welcome.

And now it seems my own son has decided to play matchmaker between me and the woman my husband should have married. He talked about her constantly, dragging Malcom into conversations about "how pretty" she looked or "how fun" their walks were. I was being erased from my own family, one memory at a time.

​Until Friday night.

​"Can you not come back home early tomorrow, Mom?"he asked, trying and failing to hide his excitement.

My heart soared. For the first time in weeks, warmth bloomed in my chest. Tomorrow was my birthday. He remembered.

After everything, my little boy still wanted to do something special for me. A surprise, perhaps. Cake? A drawing? Maybe even a small family dinner where things felt normal again.

I smiled softly and brushed his hair back, my voice gentle. “Okay, sweetheart. I won’t come home early. I promise.”

He grinned, clearly pleased with himself, and snuggled deeper under the covers.

I kissed his forehead, hope flickering weakly inside me for the first time in a long while. Maybe this was the turning point.

Maybe my son was trying to make things better in his own childish way.

I was sadly, painfully mistaken.

​I went to bed that night with a smile, dreaming of a birthday where I was finally seen again. I didn't know then that the surprise Jason was planning wasn't the kind a mother ever wants to receive.

I woke up with a quiet, fragile hope blooming in my chest that morning.

Neither Malcom nor Jason had wished me a happy birthday.

But I told myself it didn’t matter. Surely they were saving their affection for the evening surprise. Jason’s poorly hidden excitement had been obvious — the way he kept glancing at his father, the whispered conversations that stopped the moment I entered the room.

They had even gone shopping the day before. I had seen the bags they tried to smuggle into the house when they thought I wasn’t looking. My heart had felt lighter than it had in weeks.

I spent the entire day at The Grayson Luxe, one of the family’s upscale hotels in the city. I booked a quiet corner suite, spread out my sketches across the large desk, and worked on new designs while occasionally checking my phone.

Every hour that passed made my anticipation grow. I imagined walking into a warmly lit home, Jason running to hug me, Malcom pulling me close, maybe even a small cake with my favorite flowers. After everything we’d been through lately, this felt like a much-needed turning point.

By evening, I could barely contain my excitement. I drove home with butterflies in my stomach, carefully applying a fresh coat of lipstick in the rearview mirror before pulling into the driveway. The house lights were glowing warmly. Soft music drifted out. My smile widened as I stepped inside.

Mom? What are you doing here?!"

​The voice wasn't a cheer. It was a sharp, furious demand. I stopped in the foyer, blinking at Jason. He was dressed in a tiny suit, his hair slicked back, looking every bit a Grayson. But his face was contorted with anger.

​"I’m sorry, honey," I said with a small, nervous chuckle. "It was just getting late. I thought maybe we could start the party a little early so you could get to bed on time."

​"You weren't supposed to be back yet!" he yelled, stomping his foot.

​"It’s fine, Jason," I tried to cajole him, reaching out to touch his shoulder. "I’m here now. Just what are you hiding? Where is your dad?"

​I laughed lightly, expecting him to break into a smile and reveal a cake. Instead, a voice drifted from the living room—a melodic, sophisticated sound that turned my blood to ice.

​"Oh, Malcom, it’s absolutely perfect! Thank you so much for this."

Monica.

She was here. In my house. On my birthday.