Burn His World: A Wife's Fury

A week later, Leo was finally stable enough for me to hold him outside the incubator. Cradling his tiny, fragile body against my chest was the first moment of peace I'd felt since the nightmare began. His fingers, impossibly small, curled around mine. This was what mattered. This was who I had to protect.

The moment was shattered when the door to the private NICU room burst open. Gordon stormed in, his face a thunderous mask, with Frida trailing behind him, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.

"Aubrey, what the hell did you do?" Gordon demanded, his voice echoing in the quiet room.

I instinctively tightened my hold on Leo, shielding him with my body. "What are you talking about?"

He thrust a medical report into my face. "Frida's allergy test. The one you insisted she get." He jabbed a finger at a highlighted line. "Severe peanut allergy. Life-threatening."

Frida let out a small sob and pulled down the collar of her silk blouse, revealing an angry red rash across her chest. "The lotion," she choked out. "The one you gave me for my dry skin. My whole body is covered in these hives. The doctor said it was an anaphylactic reaction. I could have died."

I stared at her, dumbfounded. "The lotion? It's the organic, hypoallergenic brand I've used for years. There are no nuts in it."

"Oh, really?" Frida's voice dripped with saccharine venom. "Because the doctors found traces of peanut oil in the sample I brought them. The bottle from my nightstand." She looked at Gordon, her eyes wide with manufactured fear. "I know you've been under a lot of stress, Aubrey. But to do something like this... to deliberately try and hurt me..."

The accusation hung in the air, so ludicrous, so poisonous, that I couldn't even form a response.

"It's a lie," I finally managed, my voice shaking. "I would never—"

"Gordon, please," Frida interrupted, clutching his arm. "Don't be angry with her. It's not her fault. She's not well. Let's just go. I'll pack my things. I can't put you in this position."

"You're not going anywhere," Gordon said, his jaw rigid. He turned his furious gaze back to me. "You will apologize to Frida. Right now."

The injustice of it all stole the air from my lungs. He didn't even question it. He didn't even consider my side. He had already tried and convicted me in his mind. The trust, the faith, the very foundation of our marriage was nothing but dust.

"No," I said, my voice quiet but firm. "I have nothing to apologize for."

Leo, sensing the tension, let out a tiny, distressed whimper. His small body tensed in my arms.

Gordon's eyes narrowed. In one swift, horrifying movement, he reached down and plucked Leo from my arms. My soul screamed.

"The baby seems a little warm, Aubrey," he said, his voice dangerously soft. "Maybe you're not fit to care for him right now. You're unstable." He held our son, our tiny, vulnerable son, like a bargaining chip. "Apologize. Show her you understand the gravity of what you've done. Or I'll have to let the doctors know you're a danger to our child."

The threat was a blade to my throat. He would do it. I saw it in his cold, determined eyes. He would use our son to protect his political ambitions, to protect Frida.

To protect Leo, I had to sacrifice my own dignity.

"Alright," I whispered, the word tasting like defeat. "I'll do it."

Tears streamed down my face, hot and silent. Every instinct screamed at me to fight, but the sight of Leo, so small and helpless in his father's arms, broke my will.

Slowly, painfully, as the pressure on my C-section incision became a white-hot agony, I lowered myself from the chair. My body protested with every inch, my pride shredding with it. The memory of Gordon kneeling in a field of wildflowers, a diamond ring in his hand, flashed through the pain—I swear I will spend my life protecting you, Aubrey. The memory was a ghost, mocking me.

"I... I am sorry," I forced the words out from the floor, each one a shard of glass in my throat.

Frida looked down at me, a flicker of triumph in her tear-filled eyes. Gordon watched, his expression unreadable, as he gently rocked our son.

The humiliation was a physical weight, crushing me. My body gave out. I collapsed onto the floor, the pain in my abdomen exploding as I curled into a ball, sobbing uncontrollably.

For a moment, I saw a flicker of concern in Gordon's eyes. He took a half-step towards me, but Frida's soft voice stopped him.

"I think I know why she did it," Frida murmured, as if sharing a sad secret. "When I moved in, I told her how much I admired Gordon. I think... I think she saw me as a threat."

That was all it took. The flicker of concern in Gordon's eyes vanished, replaced by a familiar hardness. He turned his back on me, his crying wife on the floor, and focused all his attention on Frida and the child in his arms.

"Don't worry," he said to her, his voice low and soothing. "I'll handle it."

Later that day, a press release went out from Gordon's campaign office, officially welcoming Frida Rodriguez as a "cherished family friend and invaluable member of the Ortiz campaign team." It was a public declaration. A line drawn in the sand. He was choosing her, openly and decisively.

When the doctor came in to check on me, she wore a grave expression. "Aubrey, your physical recovery is slow, but what worries me more is your mental state. You're showing all the signs of severe postpartum depression. I want to prescribe—"

Gordon, who had returned to the room, cut her off. "She's fine," he said dismissively. "She's just being emotional." He checked his watch. "I have to go. Frida is co-hosting a youth voter registration drive with me this afternoon."

He didn't even look at me as he left. He was already gone, prioritizing a political photo-op with his mistress over the health of his wife.