Burn His World: A Wife's Fury

Gordon was ruthlessly efficient. He made a few curt phone calls, his voice low and commanding, barking orders at his security team. Within an hour, they had tracked them down. Frida hadn't gone far. She was still in the hospital, in a deserted fire escape stairwell on the top floor. We found her sitting on the cold concrete steps, cradling Leo in her arms. But something was terribly wrong. Leo's eyes were closed, his face had a bluish tint, and his breathing was shallow, almost nonexistent. He was limp in her arms, like a doll. "What did you do?" I screamed, rushing forward and snatching my son from her grasp. He felt cold. Too cold. Frida looked up, her eyes wide and eerily calm. "He was fussy," she said, as if it were the most reasonable explanation in the world. "I gave him some of a special herbal formula my nanny used to use. To help him sleep. I thought it would soothe him." The words hit me with the force of a physical blow. A formula. With unknown ingredients. Given to a premature baby. She was trying to kill my son. Clutching Leo to my chest, I turned and ran, my bare feet slapping against the cold concrete. I burst through the doors into the main hallway, screaming for a doctor, for anyone to help. The next twenty-four hours were a blur of beeping machines and solemn-faced doctors. Leo fought for his life in the pediatric ICU, and I sat by his incubator, praying, bargaining with a God I wasn't sure I believed in anymore. He survived. He was weak, he would need care, but he was alive. The moment the doctor gave me the news, a cold, hard resolve settled in my heart. I pulled out my phone and dialed 911. "I'd like to report an attempted murder," I said, my voice steady. Gordon, who had been standing in the corner of the waiting room, strode over and snatched the phone from my hand, ending the call. "What do you think you're doing?" he hissed, his grip on my arm painfully tight. "I'm calling the police," I said, trying to wrench my arm free. "She tried to kill our son, Gordon! She has to be arrested." "Absolutely not," he said, his eyes flashing with fury. "Do you have any idea what this would do to my campaign? The scandal? Frida is a Rodriguez. We cannot have her facing a police investigation. Her future would be ruined." His words were so monstrously selfish, so completely devoid of empathy, that I could only stare at him in stunned silence. Her future? What about our son's future? What about his life? "I don't care about her future," I spat, my voice dripping with venom. "And I don't care about your damn campaign. I want a divorce, Gordon." The words hung in the air between us, final and irrevocable. Just then, Frida appeared in the doorway, her face a perfect mask of remorse. "Gordon, she's right," she said, her voice breaking. "It's all my fault. I... I'll take responsibility. I'll leave. I won't be a burden to you anymore." It was a performance, and I wasn't going to be a spectator. I lunged at her, my hand connecting with her cheek in a sharp, satisfying slap. Before I could strike her again, Gordon grabbed me, his fingers digging into my shoulders. He shoved me back so hard I stumbled, my back hitting the wall with a painful thud. He didn't even glance at me to see if I was hurt. He was too busy cradling Frida's face, checking her cheek for any sign of a mark. "This is your fault, Aubrey," he said, his voice shaking with a rage that was entirely for her benefit. "If you hadn't stressed her out, if you had been a more stable mother, none of this would have happened." He was blaming me. He was twisting her murderous act into my failure. In that moment, I knew. I knew with a chilling certainty that there was no line he wouldn't cross for her, for his ambition. He would sacrifice anyone. Me. Our son. His own soul. My fight was over. My love was dead. All that remained was the cold, pragmatic need to escape. When Leo was finally discharged, I took him home. Not to the sterile, cold house Gordon and I had shared, but back to my family's old estate on the outskirts of the city. I called my grandmother, who had been living in France since my grandfather's death, and asked her to come home. I needed her. My family, the Ellisons, had once been powerful. But my father had been framed for corporate espionage, sent to prison, and our company had nearly collapsed. It was Gordon, a brilliant young lawyer at the time, who had saved the company, who had cleared my father's name. I had fallen in love with my hero, my savior. And now, that same man had become my villain. Grandma arrived a few days later, her presence a warm, comforting balm on my fractured spirit. But even her return couldn't completely dispel the chill that had settled over the house. Frida's influence was like a cancer. The staff, once loyal to my family for generations, now looked at me with a mixture of pity and suspicion. Their paychecks were signed by Gordon Ortiz, and their loyalties had shifted accordingly. For our safety, I moved Leo, Grandma, and myself into a secluded wing of the house, far from the main bedrooms. I installed new locks on the doors. I was creating a fortress, a small, defensible island in a house that was no longer my home. I was a prisoner, and my jailer was the man I had once promised to love, honor, and obey.