Chapter 4

Elias called me three times that night. I didn't answer.

I sat in the penthouse and stared at my phone. Each call lit up the screen. Each one went to voicemail.

On the fourth call, I picked up.

"Dalia." His voice was careful. Measured. "Come on. Let's talk about this."

"There's nothing to talk about," I said.

"You don't mean that."

"I want a divorce."

He sighed. Long and slow. Like I was a child throwing a tantrum. "You're emotional right now. I get it. But you need to calm down and think clearly."

I hung up.

He didn't call back.

I sat there in the dark. The city lights bled through the windows. I thought about my mother. About the brownstone. About Lacey's tear-streaked face pressed against my husband's chest.

I stood up.

I walked to Elias's private lounge. The room he kept locked. The room where he kept his expensive whiskey and his awards and his perfectly curated version of himself.

I used the spare key he didn't know I had.

The first bottle I grabbed was a fifty-year-old Macallan. He bought it at auction for twelve thousand dollars. I threw it against the wall. Glass exploded. Amber liquid ran down the white paint.

The second bottle was older. Rarer. I didn't read the label. I just threw it.

Then the third. The fourth. The fifth.

I overturned his mahogany desk. Papers scattered. His laptop hit the floor with a crack. I tore his framed awards off the walls. Harvard Business School. Forbes 30 Under 30. CEO of the Year.

I ripped them down one by one and smashed them.

The room looked like a crime scene. Shattered glass everywhere. Whiskey pooling on the hardwood. The smell of alcohol so thick it burned my throat.

I stood in the center of it all, breathing hard.

Then the pain hit.

Sharp. Seizing. Low in my abdomen. Like something inside me was tearing.

I doubled over. My knees buckled. I went down hard, landing on broken glass. It cut into my palms.

I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. The pain was white-hot and spreading.

I tried to stand. Couldn't.

I crawled toward the door. My vision blurred. My hands left bloody prints on the floor.

I don't remember calling for help. I don't remember the night security guard breaking down the door.

I just remember the ceiling tiles in the ambulance. The way they blurred and doubled. The paramedic's voice asking me questions I couldn't answer.

Then nothing.

I woke up in a hospital bed.

The room was white. Sterile. Quiet. An IV drip fed into my left arm. My right hand was bandaged.

A nurse came in when she saw me stirring. She smiled. "You're awake. How are you feeling?"

"What happened?" My voice was hoarse.

"You collapsed. Lost a lot of blood from the cuts on your hands. But you're stable now."

She checked my vitals. Wrote something on a chart. "The doctor will be in soon."

She left.

I lay there and stared at the ceiling. I counted the tiles. Tried to remember how I got here.

The door opened again. A doctor walked in. Middle-aged. Kind eyes. She pulled a chair up beside my bed and sat down.

"Ms. Cunningham," she said gently. "I'm Dr. Patel. How are you feeling?"

"Tired," I said.

She nodded. "We ran some tests. Bloodwork. An ultrasound. There's something we need to discuss."

My chest tightened.

"You're pregnant," she said. "Seven weeks."

The room went silent.

I stared at her. "What?"

"Seven weeks pregnant. The fetus is healthy. Strong heartbeat. But given what happened tonight, we need to monitor you closely. You're at risk for complications."

I couldn't speak. Couldn't move.

Pregnant.

Seven weeks.

I put my hand on my stomach. It was flat. Empty. But something was there. Something real.

A child.

Mine.

"Ms. Cunningham?" Dr. Patel leaned forward. "Do you understand what I'm saying?"

I nodded slowly.

She squeezed my hand. "Get some rest. We'll talk more in the morning."

She left.

I lay there in the fluorescent quiet. My hand still on my stomach.

A baby.

Elias's baby.

Our baby.

Something fragile flickered in my chest. Something I hadn't felt in weeks.

Hope.

Elias arrived the next morning with white peonies.

He walked in slowly. Carefully. Like I might shatter if he moved too fast.

"Dalia." He set the flowers on the bedside table. "God, I was so worried."

I looked at him. At his perfect hair. His perfect suit. His perfect concerned expression.

"I'm sorry," he said. He sat down and took my hand. "I'm so sorry. For everything. I should have listened. I should have believed you."

I said nothing.

"The baby changes everything," he continued. His voice was soft. Earnest. "I'm going to be better. I'm going to fix this. Lacey and Marilyn — I'll handle it. I'll move them out. I'll make this right."

He squeezed my hand.

"I promise, Dalia. I'm going to be the husband you deserve. The father our child deserves."

I looked at his face. At the sincerity in his eyes.

For one suspended, aching moment, I almost believed him.

Then his phone buzzed.

He glanced at the screen. His jaw tightened.

"I just need to take this," he said. "One second."

He stepped into the hallway. I heard his voice through the door. Low. Soothing.

"It's okay. I'll bring it over. Yes, right now. Don't worry."

He came back in. Kissed my forehead.

"Marilyn needs her medication delivered," he said. "I'll be right back. I promise."

He left.

I watched the door close.

I lay there with my hand on my stomach.

The hope began to turn.

Cold.

Sharp.

Something else entirely.

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Chapter 5

The hospital room became my cage.

Elias came every morning. He brought flowers. Magazines. A cashmere blanket because he said the hospital ones were too rough. He sat in the chair beside my bed and held my hand and talked about names.

"If it's a boy, maybe James," he said. "After my grandfather. Or if it's a girl—"

"I don't want to talk about names," I said.

He squeezed my hand. "It's okay. We have time."

Then his phone would buzz. He'd glance at the screen. His face would shift.

"I'll be right back," he'd say.

He'd step into the hallway. I'd hear his voice through the door. Low. Gentle. The same voice he used with me.

He'd come back in twenty minutes later. Sometimes an hour.

"Marilyn's having chest pains again," he'd explain. "I just need to make sure she's okay."

Or: "Lacey's landlord is threatening eviction. I have to handle it."

Or: "The brownstone's heat isn't working. I can't let them freeze."

He always had a reason.

I stopped asking where he went.

Dr. Patel came in on the third day. She checked my chart. Took my blood pressure. Her mouth pressed into a thin line.

"Your numbers aren't good," she said. "Your stress levels are dangerously high."

"I'm fine."

"You're not." She sat down. "Ms. Cunningham, I need you to understand something. If you don't eliminate the sources of stress in your life, you're at serious risk for complications. Preeclampsia. Placental abruption. Preterm labor."

I stared at the ceiling tiles. Counted them. Twenty-four across.

"Do you understand what I'm saying?" she asked.

"Yes."

"You need complete rest. No emotional upheaval. No conflict. Whatever is causing this—" She gestured at the monitor showing my elevated heart rate. "—you need to remove it."

I nodded.

She left.

I lay there with my hand on my stomach. Felt the flatness of it. Tried to imagine something alive inside. Tried to feel something other than the cold spreading through my chest.

Elias came back an hour later. He kissed my forehead.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Fine," I said.

He smiled. "Good. That's good."

His phone buzzed.

He looked at it. His smile faded.

"I just need to—"

"Go," I said.

He hesitated. "Are you sure?"

"Go."

He left.

I watched the door close.

Then I reached for my phone.

Mia Scott came the next afternoon.

I hadn't expected her. Elias's daughter and I had always existed in careful orbit around each other. Polite. Distant. She was twenty-four. Worked in publishing. Had her mother's sharp eyes and her father's careful control.

She walked in carrying a paper bag. Set it on the table beside my bed.

"Soup," she said. "The hospital food here is terrible."

"Thank you."

She sat down in the chair Elias usually occupied. Crossed her legs. Studied me.

"How are you feeling?" she asked.

"Everyone keeps asking me that."

"Because you look like hell."

I almost laughed. Almost.

She leaned back. "My dad's been staying at the brownstone."

I went still.

"He thinks I don't know," she continued. "But I drove past last night. Saw his car. Saw the lights on in the upstairs bedroom."

I said nothing.

Mia's jaw tightened. "My mother put up with his savior complex for fifteen years. It destroyed her. She tried to be understanding. Tried to be patient. And he left her anyway."

She stood up. Walked to the window. Looked out at the city.

"Are you going to let him get away with this?" she asked.

I stared at her back. At the rigid line of her shoulders.

"I don't know what you mean," I said.

"Yes, you do."

Silence stretched between us.

She turned around. Met my eyes.

"He's going to keep doing this," she said quietly. "To you. To the next one. Until someone stops him."

She picked up her bag. Walked to the door.

"The soup's from that place on Lexington you like," she said. "Get better, Dalia."

She left.

I sat there for a long time. Then I picked up my phone.

I scrolled through my contacts. Found the name I'd been circling for days.

Christina Wells.

My mother's attorney. The woman who'd fought for her during the divorce. The woman who'd held her hand through depositions and court dates and the final, brutal dissolution of everything she'd built.

I stared at the number.

Then I pressed call.

It rang twice.

"Wells Legal," a crisp voice answered.

"I need to speak with Christina Wells," I said. "My name is Dalia Cunningham."

A pause. Then: "One moment."

The line clicked. Held. Then a new voice came through. Lower. Sharper.

"Dalia," Christina said. "I've been waiting for this call."

My throat tightened.

"You knew I'd call?"

"Your mother called me three weeks before she died," Christina said. "She told me if anything ever happened to her, I should watch out for you. She said you'd need me someday."

I closed my eyes.

"I'm sorry I didn't reach out sooner," she continued. "But I knew you'd come when you were ready."

"I'm ready," I said.

"Tell me everything."

So I did.

I told her about the anniversary. The brownstone. Lacey and Marilyn. The debt. The coffee. The hospital. The baby. Elias's absences. His promises. His phone calls.

I told her everything.

When I finished, the line was quiet.

Then Christina said: "How much do you want to destroy him?"

The question hung in the air.

I looked down at my bandaged hand. At the IV in my arm. At my flat stomach where something fragile and impossible was growing.

"Completely," I said.

"Good," Christina said. "Then let's get to work."

We talked for two hours. She asked questions. I answered. She took notes. I heard the scratch of her pen through the phone.

By the end, I had an appointment. Friday. Her office.

"Bring everything," she said. "Bank statements. Texts. Photos. The private investigator's report. Everything."

"I will."

"And Dalia?"