His Unwanted Wife: The Genius's Spectacular Comeback

Christa woke before dawn, her neck stiff from the sofa bed, her mouth dry. She lay still for a moment, orienting herself in the unfamiliar darkness of the dressing room. Then she remembered. She rose silently, padding to the door and pressing her ear against it. Denny's breathing continued, deep and even. She slipped into the bathroom, brushed her teeth, splashed water on her face without looking in the mirror. When she emerged, she went to Cora's room. Her daughter slept sprawled across her princess bed, one arm flung above her head, her dark hair tangled on the pillow. Six years old. Old enough to understand that fathers were supposed to keep promises. Young enough to still believe they would. Christa sat on the edge of the bed and watched her breathe. She thought of the child Brittany carried. The heir. The trump card. Her hand moved to her own abdomen, flat and empty beneath her silk camisole. They had talked about a second child. Next year, Denny had always said. When the company stabilizes. When we have more time. Liar. Cora stirred, her eyes fluttering open. "Mommy?" "Shh. Go back to sleep, baby." But Cora was awake now, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. "Why are you here? Where's Daddy?" "Daddy's sleeping. I just wanted to see you." Cora crawled into her lap, warm and heavy with sleep. Christa held her, breathing in the smell of strawberry shampoo and child-sweat, feeling the small heart beating against her own. "I had a dream about the horses," Cora mumbled into her shoulder. "We were all riding together. You, me, and Daddy." Christa's arms tightened. "That sounds like a nice dream." "Will we go riding this weekend? You promised." "We'll see, baby. Now sleep." She settled Cora back against her pillows, singing the lullaby her own mother had sung, her voice barely audible. When Cora's breathing deepened, she kissed her forehead and left. Denny was in the kitchen when she entered, reading something on his tablet. He looked up, his expression carefully neutral. "You're up early." "I couldn't sleep." She poured coffee, keeping her movements economical. "Cora's awake. She'll want breakfast soon." Denny set down his tablet. He approached her slowly, as one might approach a skittish animal, and placed his hands on her hips. His thumbs traced circles against her robe, the gesture so familiar it made her want to scream. "About last night," he said. "I was concerned. You never pull away like that." Christa stepped to the side, reaching for a mug. "I told you. I was unwell." "Are you better now?" She turned to face him, holding her coffee between them like a shield. "Much. Thank you." Denny studied her face. She watched him search for cracks in her composure, finding none. She had always been good at this-controlling her expressions, managing her emotions. He had called it her "scientific detachment" once, admiringly. Now she used it against him. He seemed to reach a decision. He straightened, releasing her completely. "I won't be home tonight," he said. "Curtis had extensive investments in the Hamptons-real estate, some art collections. I need to sort through the documentation at the estate. It will take hours." Christa sipped her coffee. It burned her tongue. She welcomed the pain. "Of course," she said. "Those matters need attention." Denny's shoulders relaxed. He had expected resistance, she realized. He had prepared arguments, justifications. Her easy agreement disarmed him. "I'll probably stay overnight," he added, watching her carefully. "Brittany is... she's not handling this well. Being alone in that house, surrounded by Curtis's things. I should stay to support her." Christa set down her mug. She looked up at him, arranging her features into an expression she hoped resembled understanding. "You're a good brother, Denny. She's fortunate to have you." The words hung between them. She watched him process them, watched his uncertainty dissolve into self-satisfaction. He believed her. He believed she was that stupid, that blind, that harmless. "Thank you," he said, and he actually sounded grateful. "For understanding." He kissed her cheek before leaving, his lips dry and brief. She stood at the counter until she heard the elevator doors close. Then she went to her study. The Sanford Dynamics research center occupied the top three floors of a building twelve blocks south. Christa's private laboratory was a fortress of glass and steel, accessible only through biometric scanners and a private elevator. She spent the day in deliberate motion. Reviewing data sets she had already memorized. Running diagnostics that needed no running. Her assistant Zoe Vance hovered at the periphery, sensing something wrong but knowing better than to ask. In the afternoon, Christa accessed the patent database. She searched for every project that carried Brittany Baldwin's name as "consultant" or "advisor." The list was longer than she expected. Fourteen patents. Three ongoing research initiatives. Two million dollars in annual consulting fees. All of it built on Christa's work. Her algorithms. Her late nights. Her breakthroughs. She downloaded everything. Organized it by date, by project code, by contribution percentage. She created folders within folders, a taxonomy of theft so comprehensive it would withstand any audit. When night fell, she was still working. Cora was asleep when she finally returned to the apartment. Maura had handled dinner, bath, bedtime. Christa stood in her daughter's doorway, watching her breathe, feeling the weight of the day's discoveries pressing against her ribs. She poured a glass of wine and sat in the dark living room. The city glittered below, indifferent to her pain. She thought of Denny in the Hamptons, in the bed where his brother had slept, with the woman who carried his child. She thought of the word he had used. Harmless. Her phone sat on the coffee table. She stared at it for a long time. She didn't know what she hoped to prove. Perhaps only that she was right. That the last shreds of doubt were unfounded. That she could stop hoping. She picked up the phone and dialed. It rang four times. Five. She was preparing to hang up when it connected. But the voice that answered was not Denny's. "Hello?" Brittany Baldwin. Sleepy, confused, intimate. Christa's hand tightened on the phone until she felt the case crack. "Hello?" Brittany repeated. Then, presumably reading the caller ID, her voice changed. It became flustered, but in a calculated way. "Oh, Christa! My goodness, Denny must have left his phone in the living room. He's in the study going over some urgent estate papers, and he asked me to answer if anyone called. Is everything alright? Is it about the company?" She paused, letting the silence stretch. The performance was masterful, casting herself as a helpful, innocent assistant while simultaneously painting a picture of domestic intimacy. "He's just finishing up," Brittany continued, her voice soft with manufactured concern. "Shall I go get him for you?" Nightstand. Shower. Living room. Study. The words painted pictures Christa didn't want to see. She found her voice. It sounded like it belonged to someone else, someone calm and professional and completely unbothered. "No need. Have him call me in the morning. There's a document that requires his signature." "Of course." Brittany's voice carried a smile Christa could hear. "I'll tell him you called. And Christa? I'm so sorry about... everything. The memorial, the gossip. I know it must be hard for you." The performance was flawless. The grieving widow, the concerned friend, the innocent bystander. Christa ended the call without responding. She sat in the dark for a long time, the dead phone still pressed to her ear. Then she stood, walked to the window, and pressed her forehead against the cold glass. Below her, the city continued its endless churn. Somewhere in it, lawyers were drafting contracts, bankers were moving fortunes, lives were being built and destroyed with the stroke of a pen. Christa Byrd had spent seven years being harmless. No more.