He Chose Her Over Our Dead Child

The penthouse in Tribeca was dead silent when Deidre walked in. The warmth of the central heating hit her frozen skin, making her itch. The butler, an older man with a perpetually stoic face, took her soaked coat. He didn't meet her eyes either. Nobody in this house looked at her.

She walked straight to the master bathroom. She turned the shower dial all the way to hot. Steam filled the room, fogging the glass. She stepped under the spray, still wearing her silk blouse, not caring that the water ruined the expensive fabric. She stood there for an hour, scrubbing her skin until it was raw and red, trying to wash away the smell of the hospital, the smell of the snow, the phantom scent of Daria's perfume that she swore she could still taste in the air.

When she finally stepped out, her skin was blotchy and pink. She sat at the vanity. She stared at her reflection. Her face was pale, her eyes hollow. She looked like a corpse. She opened her makeup drawer and began the ritual. Thick concealer under her eyes. Foundation to cover the gray tinge of her skin. Blush to fake a healthy glow. She painted on the mask of the perfect Mrs. Ortega.

At exactly eight o'clock, the electronic lock on the front door beeped. Deidre was sitting on the edge of the sofa in the living room, her hands folded in her lap.

Danial walked in. The scent of his expensive cologne-sandalwood and vetiver-wafted in before he did. He looked immaculate, not a single snowflake on his dark wool coat.

He stopped when he saw her. His eyes flickered with mild surprise before settling into his usual mask of polite detachment. "You're still up."

Deidre didn't answer. She just watched him.

He walked over to her, his steps measured. He leaned down, aiming to press a perfunctory kiss to her forehead. It was a habit, a piece of the performance they put on for the staff.

Deidre turned her head. The kiss landed awkwardly on her hair.

Danial froze. His lips hovered in the air for a second before he pulled back. A small crease formed between his brows. "Are you feeling unwell?"

Deidre looked up, meeting his gaze directly. "I went to the doctor today. I'm just tired."

A flicker of something-guilt, fear, annoyance-passed through Danial's eyes. It was gone in an instant. "The doctor? What did they say?"

Deidre's hand curled into a fist, the sharp edge of the folded diagnosis report digging into her palm inside her sleeve. "Just anemia. Nothing serious. And I'm not pregnant."

The tension in Danial's shoulders evaporated. He let out a quiet sigh of relief. He reached out and patted her shoulder, the way one would pat a dog. "Don't stress about it. These things happen. We'll just let nature take course."

Deidre stared at his hand on her shoulder. Let nature take its course. Today, he had been at a hospital, setting up trust funds and kissing another woman's pregnant belly. Here, he was relieved she wasn't carrying his child. The hypocrisy was so thick she could choke on it.

Danial unbuttoned his coat and tossed it aside. As he pulled off his suit jacket, Deidre's eyes zeroed in on his collar. Stuck to the dark fabric, right at the base of his throat, was a single long strand of golden hair.

Daria's hair.

Deidre's stomach lurched. The nausea was back, violent and sudden. She shot up from the sofa, nearly knocking Danial over.

"I need water," she muttered, practically running into the kitchen.

She stood behind the marble island, gripping the edge of the counter, breathing heavily through the nausea. She poured a glass of water, her hands shaking so badly the liquid sloshed over the rim.

A phone buzzed on the coffee table in the living room. Deidre looked up. It was Danial's phone. The screen lit up with a number. No name, no contact photo. Just a string of digits.

Danial's head snapped toward the phone. His relaxed posture vanished. He snatched the phone off the table and walked quickly to the floor-to-ceiling windows, turning his back to her.

"Speak," he said, his voice low and urgent.

Deidre couldn't hear the person on the other end, but she could see Danial's reflection in the glass. His jaw was clenched. He ran a hand through his hair, a nervous habit he only had when things were spiraling out of his control. He spoke in short, clipped sentences, his tone laced with a frantic concern he never showed her.

The call lasted less than a minute. Danial ended it and turned around. His face was a mask of stone again, but his eyes were hard and calculating.

"There's a crisis with the offshore accounts in Wall Street," he said, adjusting his cuffs. "I need to go handle it immediately."

Deidre set her glass down. She walked out from behind the island and stopped right in front of him. She looked up at his face, searching for a crack, a hint of guilt. Then, she did something she hadn't done in years. She reached out and grabbed the sleeve of his shirt.

"Stay," she whispered. The word was barely audible. "Stay here tonight."

Danial looked down at her hand on his sleeve. His eyes narrowed. He didn't try to pry her fingers off; he just gave her a look of cold disdain. "Deidre, don't be childish. This is about the family's interests. I don't have time for your clinginess."

"Is it really the accounts?" Deidre asked. Her voice was steady, but the tremor in her fingers betrayed her. "Or is it her?"

Danial's gaze turned sharp, dangerous. "What did you say?"

"Are you going to her?" Deidre pressed, her grip tightening on his sleeve. "Are you going to Daria?"

The silence in the room was deafening. The air between them crackled with tension. Danial leaned down, his face inches from hers. "Are you having a paranoid episode? Because if you're going to start making baseless accusations, I suggest you check yourself into a facility."

Deidre didn't back down. She stared into his cold, dark eyes, and she saw nothing but emptiness. No love. No guilt. Just a stranger who wore her husband's face.

Danial yanked his arm free. He straightened his tie, his lip curling in disgust. "Get some sleep. You're being irrational."

He turned on his heel and walked out. The front door slammed shut with a heavy, final thud.

Deidre stood alone in the massive living room. The silence rushed back in, louder than before. She walked slowly to the floor-to-ceiling window and looked out at the glittering Manhattan skyline. The city was alive, but she was dead.

A tear slipped down her cheek. Then another. She didn't bother wiping them away. She pulled out her phone and opened the calendar. Tomorrow's date was highlighted in red. A small black cross marked the day.

It was the anniversary of Lily's death.

A sudden, vice-like grip seized her chest. Deidre gasped, her hand flying to her heart. It felt like her ribs were being crushed in a vise. She stumbled backward, hitting the cold glass. She slid down to the floor, her vision blurring.

She clawed at her purse, her fingers scrambling for the small orange bottle of emergency pills. She popped the cap, dumping two pills into her palm, and shoved them into her mouth. She dry-swallowed them, her body wracked with violent tremors.

She curled into a ball on the icy floor, clutching her chest, waiting for the medication to kick in. She stared at the empty space where Danial had stood. The illusion was shattered. The man she had loved for five years, the man she had nearly died for, was a monster. And she was entirely alone.