The taxi driver was halfway to the manor when Anjanette leaned forward, the vinyl of the seat sticking to her damp scrubs.

Turn around, she said. Her voice was hollow.

The driver glanced in the rearview mirror. Lady, the meter is running.

Go back to the hospital. The side entrance.

She couldn't explain why. It was a form of self-flagellation, perhaps. Or maybe she just needed to be absolutely certain. She needed the knife to be twisted all the way in before she could pull it out.

When they arrived back at the clinic, Anjanette didn't go to the reception. She knew the layout of this building. She used to run errands here for Adam's mother, picking up prescriptions, delivering files. She slipped through a service entrance she knew was often left propped open for the laundry service, her head swimming with a dizzy spell she ruthlessly pushed down. She pulled the hood of the windbreaker up and kept her head down.

The security guard at the VIP wing was new. He glanced at her, but she walked with the brisk, annoyed purpose of a staff member on a smoke break, and he let her pass.

The hallway on the third floor was quiet, carpeted in plush beige that absorbed the sound of footsteps. She saw the Bentley parked outside through a window, so she knew they were still here.

She crept toward the Obstetrics and Gynecology suite. The door to exam room three was ajar.

She pressed her back against the wall, hidden by a large potted ficus. Her heart was beating so hard she thought it might be audible in the quiet corridor.

...everything looks perfect, Mr. Horton. A deep, professional voice drifted out.

Then a lighter, breathy voice. Adam, look. You can see the little hands.

Casie.

Anjanette closed her eyes.

A nurse walked out of the room, holding a clipboard. She paused to speak to a colleague at the station just a few feet from Anjanette.

Mr. Horton is so intense, the nurse whispered, shaking her head. You'd think it was the first baby in the world. He's making us run every test twice.

Well, it's early, the other nurse replied. Only twelve weeks. You have to be careful.

Twelve weeks.

The words hit Anjanette like a physical slap. She did the math instantly. Twelve weeks ago was mid-August.

August 14th. Their third wedding anniversary.

Adam had been in London. He had called her, his voice clipped and distant, saying the merger talks were running long and he couldn't make it home. Anjanette had sat at the dining table alone, blowing out the candles on a cake she had baked herself.

He hadn't been in a boardroom. He had been in bed with Casie Haynes.

Inside the room, Casie giggled. It's moving!

He's active, Adam's voice was a low rumble. It was the voice he used when he was satisfied with a deal. Warm. Proud.

Anjanette clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle the retching sound that tried to escape her throat. The bile tasted acidic and bitter.

She turned and stumbled back down the hallway, her vision blurring. She collided with a janitor mopping the floor.

Watch it! he snapped.

Anjanette didn't hear him. All she could hear was twelve weeks, twelve weeks, twelve weeks.

She made it back to the taxi and collapsed into the seat.

Horton Manor, she said again. And this time, don't stop.

She pulled out her phone and typed into the search bar: Adam Horton London Trip Casie Haynes.

Nothing. Just press releases about Horton Industries' global expansion. Photos of Adam shaking hands with old men in suits. The PR team had scrubbed everything. It was a perfect, sanitized narrative.

The taxi wound its way up the long driveway of the estate. The iron gates swung open, the hinges silent. The butler, an older man named Stevens, opened the front door as the taxi pulled up. His eyebrows shot up when he saw her getting out of a yellow cab in hospital scrubs.

Madam? Stevens asked. Mr. Horton called. He said you had a minor injury.

Minor, Anjanette repeated. She walked past him into the grand foyer.

The house was massive and cold. It smelled of lemon polish and old money. On the wall hung a portrait of her and Adam from their wedding day. Adam looked bored. Anjanette looked hopeful. She wanted to rip it off the wall and smash it over her knee.

Mrs. Perry, the housekeeper, bustled in from the kitchen. Oh, Mrs. Horton! You're back. Can I get you some tea? You look... pale.

I'm fine, Anjanette said, walking toward the stairs.

She passed the room that was supposed to be the nursery. It was a room Adam had told her not to decorate yet. We're not ready, he had said. Let's focus on my career first.

The door was cracked open.

Anjanette pushed it.

The room wasn't empty. It was filled with boxes. Pink boxes. Bags from high-end baby boutiques. A crib that cost more than a Honda Civic was already assembled in the corner.

She walked over to a pile of gifts on the changing table. There was a card attached to a silver rattle.

For my darling Casie and the little princess. Can't wait to meet her. Love, Elaine.

Elaine. Adam's mother.

Anjanette's knees gave out. She grabbed the edge of the crib to steady herself.

They all knew. Elaine knew. The staff probably knew. The entire world was in on the joke, and the punchline was Anjanette.

She heard the heavy thud of the front door closing downstairs. Then the sound of expensive leather shoes on the marble floor.

Adam was home.

Anjanette stood at the top of the grand staircase, gripping the banister until her knuckles turned white. She watched him.

Adam walked into the foyer, loosening his tie with one hand. He looked tired, the kind of weary satisfaction that comes after a long day of managing crises. He handed his jacket to Stevens without looking at him.

Where is she? Adam asked.

Mrs. Horton is upstairs, sir, Stevens replied quietly.

Adam looked up. When his eyes met hers, he didn't flinch. He didn't look guilty. He just looked annoyed.

Why are you standing there in the dark? he asked. And what are you wearing?

Anjanette walked down the stairs slowly, one step at a time. The pain in her arm was a dull throb now, overshadowed by the adrenaline coursing through her veins.

Where were you? she asked. Her voice was steady, terrifyingly calm.

Adam sighed, walking past her toward the living room bar. Work. I heard you checked yourself out. That was irresponsible, Anjanette. The doctors wanted to keep you for observation.

Work, she repeated. Is the VIP maternity ward considered a satellite office now?

Adam froze. He was pouring a glass of scotch. The liquid splashed slightly over the rim. He set the bottle down slowly and turned to face her.

You followed me? His voice dropped an octave. It wasn't a question; it was an accusation.

I didn't have to, she said. You weren't exactly hiding. You carried her in, Adam. Like she was glass.

Adam took a sip of his drink. He leaned back against the mahogany bar, crossing his ankles. His casual arrogance was breathtaking.

Casie is having a difficult time. It's a high-risk pregnancy. She needed support.

Support, Anjanette laughed. It was a brittle, sharp sound. Twelve weeks of support? Since our anniversary?

Adam's jaw tightened. That was an accident. It wasn't planned.

An accident is spilling coffee, Adam. Sleeping with your ex-girlfriend in London while your wife sits at home is a choice.

He set the glass down hard. The sound echoed in the cavernous room.

Stop it, he said. His voice was cold steel. You're being hysterical. Casie is fragile. She's not like you. You... you can handle things. You're resilient. That's why I married you.

Resilient. It was a code word. It meant used to suffering. It meant low maintenance.

I married you because I thought you were different, he continued, walking toward her. He used his height to loom over her, a tactic that usually made her shrink back. But tonight, she stood her ground. This situation with Casie... it's complicated. But the child is a Horton. We have a duty to the family.

We? Anjanette asked. There is no 'we' anymore.

Adam rolled his eyes. Don't be dramatic. You're my wife. You're a Horton now. You signed the prenup. You know exactly what your life would look like without me.

He reached out to brush a stray hair from her forehead.

Anjanette flinched away as if his hand were a burning brand. Don't touch me. You smell like her.

Adam's hand hovered in the air, then dropped to his side. His expression hardened.

You're forgetting where you came from, Anjanette. That foster home in Ohio? The nothingness? I gave you a life. I gave you purpose. Don't throw a tantrum just because things got messy.

The air in the room seemed to vanish. He had said the quiet part out loud. To him, she was a rescue dog. A charity case he had plucked from obscurity to manage his schedule and warm his bed.

I want a divorce, she said.

Adam let out a short, derisive snort. He picked up his drink again.

No, you don't. You like the penthouse. You like the clothes. You like pretending to be someone who matters.

He took a sip, watching her over the rim of the glass.

Go to bed, Anjanette. Take a pill. We'll talk about this when you're rational.

He turned his back on her and walked into his study, closing the heavy oak doors with a definitive click.

Anjanette stood alone in the hallway. Mrs. Perry was dusting a vase in the corner, keeping her head resolutely down, pretending she hadn't just witnessed the execution of a marriage.

Anjanette looked at the closed door. A strange sensation washed over her. It wasn't sadness anymore. It was clarity.

She turned and walked toward the guest wing. She would not sleep in their bed tonight. She would not sleep in sheets that smelled of his lies.

The guest room was sterile. It smelled of lavender detergent and disuse. Anjanette lay on top of the duvet, staring at the ceiling. The silence of the house was oppressive.

She couldn't sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the plane going down. Then she saw Adam's face, cool and dismissive.

She needed to know. She needed to see it one last time, to burn the bridge so thoroughly that she could never turn back.

She got up. She went to the closet where she kept her special clothes. The ones she rarely wore because Adam preferred her in modest, elegant neutrals. She pulled out a silk nightgown, a deep crimson that looked like spilled wine.

She put it on. It skimmed her body, highlighting curves Adam usually ignored.

She walked down the dark hallway to the master bedroom.

She pushed the door open.

Adam was just coming out of the ensuite bathroom. He had a towel wrapped low around his hips. His hair was damp. Drops of water ran down his chest.

He stopped when he saw her. His eyes narrowed.

I told you I was tired, he said.

Anjanette walked toward him. She didn't say a word. She moved with a slow, predatory grace that was entirely foreign to the dutiful wife he knew.

She stopped inches from him. She reached out and placed her palm flat against his bare chest, right over his heart.

It was beating slow and steady. No guilt. No anxiety.

Adam looked down at her hand, then up at her face. He looked confused, and then, slowly, disgusted.

What are you doing? he asked.

Anjanette trailed her fingers down his sternum. You said you were tired. But you didn't look tired at the clinic.

Adam grabbed her wrist. His grip was hard, bruising.

Stop it, he hissed. You look desperate. It's pathetic.

Pathetic? she whispered. Or inconvenient?

She stepped closer, pressing her body against his. Does she do this better than me? Is that it? Or is it just because she's weak, and that makes you feel like a man?

Adam shoved her.

It wasn't a gentle push. He put his hands on her shoulders and threw her back.

Anjanette stumbled. Her heel caught on the edge of the rug. She fell backward, crashing into the antique vanity table.

Perfume bottles rattled and tipped over. A heavy crystal flask of Chanel No. 5 shattered on the hardwood floor.

The scent was instantaneous-thick, floral, and suffocating.

Anjanette sat amidst the broken glass. A sharp shard had sliced into the sole of her foot. She felt the warm trickle of blood.

Adam stood over her, breathing hard. He didn't look concerned. He looked revulsed.

Look at you, he sneered. Groveling for attention. It's disgusting, Anjanette. You're acting like a common whore.

Anjanette looked up at him. The pain in her foot was sharp and grounding. It cleared the fog in her brain.

She started to laugh.

It began as a low chuckle and rose to a chilling sound that made Adam take a half-step back.

You're right, she said, pushing herself up. She ignored the glass biting into her skin. It is disgusting.

She stood tall, the red silk gown flowing around her like armor. Blood left dark, wet footprints on the pale rug.

She looked him in the eye.

Thank you, Adam.

For what? he asked, wary now.

For making this easy.

She turned and walked out of the room. She didn't limp, but every step sent a fresh spike of agony up her leg, a pain she welcomed, using it to cauterize the wound in her heart.

She went back to the guest room. She went into the bathroom and sat on the edge of the tub. She found a first-aid kit under the sink, her movements precise and detached. She pulled the largest glass shard out of her foot with tweezers, watching the blood flow into the drain with a strange sense of calm. She cleaned the wound with antiseptic that stung like fire, then bandaged it tightly, the pressure a dull, comforting ache.

Then she reached under the bed and pulled out a battered suitcase. It was the one she had brought with her when she moved in three years ago.

She opened it. It was empty.

It wouldn't be for long.