After My Husband Signed Our Baby's Death Order

The ballroom looked like something out of a magazine. Blush roses everywhere. Huge arrangements on every table. They climbed up tall glass vases and spilled over the edges like waterfalls. The champagne tower sparkled under the chandeliers. A string quartet played something soft and elegant in the corner. Women in silk dresses. Men in tailored suits. Diamonds catching the light every time someone moved.

I stood near the entrance, smiling. Accepting hugs. Air-kisses. Compliments.

"She's absolutely precious, Maeve."

"You look stunning. Motherhood agrees with you."

"Ridge must be over the moon."

I thanked them. Laughed at the right moments. Touched their arms. I was warm. Gracious. The perfect hostess. The perfect new mother.

At the center of the room sat the bassinet. White wicker with Italian lace lining. Camilla's baby lay inside, dressed in the soft pink outfit I'd bought for Livia last month. The same hand-embroidered blanket. The same silk headband with the tiny bow.

No one could tell the difference.

I felt the small weight of my phone in my clutch. Recording. Declan's voice had come through my earpiece twenty minutes ago, low and steady. "Package secure. Forty miles out. She's asleep."

Livia was safe.

This baby wasn't.

I sipped my champagne. Moved through the crowd. Smiled.

Ridge arrived late. He always did. He liked to make an entrance. He walked in wearing his navy Tom Ford suit, the one I'd bought him for his birthday. His smile was wide. Confident. He worked the room like a politician, shaking hands, clapping shoulders.

Then he came to me.

He kissed my cheek. His cologne was too strong. "You outdid yourself, babe. This is incredible."

"Thank you," I said. My voice was soft. Affectionate. I didn't pull away.

He moved to the bassinet. Adjusted the canopy. Leaned down like he was checking on her. His hand rested on the edge of the wicker. He looked at the baby for three seconds. Maybe four. Then he straightened up and turned back to the guests.

He didn't touch her. Didn't stroke her cheek. Didn't smile at her.

He smiled at the room.

I watched him. Really watched him. The way his eyes scanned the crowd, looking for someone. The way his jaw tightened when an older couple asked him about work. The way his gaze finally landed on Camilla, stationed near the catering table in a black dress and a fake professional smile.

She nodded. Just once. Barely visible.

Ridge's shoulders relaxed.

I took another sip of champagne. It tasted like nothing.

The party moved around me. Laughter. Clinking glasses. The quartet switched to something lighter. A woman in emerald silk asked me about the nursery. I described it in detail. The custom mural. The rocking chair imported from France. She listened, delighted.

I didn't twist my ring. I didn't touch it at all.

Forty minutes in, Camilla moved.

She walked toward the bassinet. Slow. Casual. She stopped to pick up a glass of sparkling water on the way. Took a sip. Set it down. Then she approached the baby like she was just checking in. Doing her job.

She pulled a lipstick from her pocket. Bright red. She applied it slowly. A thick, heavy coat. She pressed her lips together. Checked her reflection in a compact mirror. Then she snapped it shut and leaned over the bassinet.

I stood fifteen feet away. I didn't move.

Camilla smiled down at the baby. Sweet. Maternal. She cooed something soft. Then she leaned in and pressed her mouth to the infant's face. A long, slow kiss. Right on the lips.

She pulled back. The baby stirred. Camilla wiped the red smudge off the tiny cheek with her thumb. She smiled again. Smoothed the blanket. Touched the baby's hand.

Then she walked away.

I lifted my champagne flute to my lips. My hand didn't shake. My expression didn't change. Across the room, a photographer snapped a picture of me. I smiled.

My phone was still recording in my clutch. Every angle. Every second.

Camilla returned to the catering table. She picked up her water glass. Took another sip. Her shoulders were relaxed. Her face was calm.

Ridge caught her eye from across the room. He nodded.

She nodded back.

I turned to the woman beside me. She was talking about her daughter's ballet recital. I listened. Asked a question. Laughed when she laughed.

Inside my chest, something cold and sharp settled into place.

I thought about the hospital. The white sheet. The moment they'd pull it back.

I smiled.

The quartet played on.