Husband's Affair & Son's Death

The St. Regis ballroom glittered with crystal chandeliers and the flash of diamonds. Women in sequined gowns air-kissed each other while men in tuxedos clutched champagne flutes, their laughter echoing off marble columns. I stood at the entrance, my black dress—still worn as mourning—a stark contrast to the festive atmosphere.

I hadn't planned to come here. But after discovering the hotel charge on my card, I needed to see for myself what Dominick was hiding.

"Mrs. Lawrence?" A waiter approached with a tray of champagne. "Would you like a glass?"

I shook my head, scanning the crowd. "I'm looking for my husband. Dr. Dominick Lawrence."

"Ah, yes. He's receiving an award tonight." The waiter pointed toward the stage. "He should be arriving soon."

Of course he was. The Medical Prodigy, receiving another accolade while our son lay cold in a morgue.

I slipped away from the waiter and found a spot on the balcony overlooking the main entrance. From there, I could see the red carpet where guests were still arriving.

That's when I saw them.

Dominick stepped out of a black town car, his arm extended toward the passenger door. A woman emerged—young, blonde, radiant in a silver gown that caught the light with every movement. Dahlia Mills. The woman who had killed our son.

My fingers gripped the balcony railing as I watched Dominick place his hand on the small of her back, guiding her up the red carpet. She laughed at something he said, tossing her head back, her hair cascading over bare shoulders.

And there it was, hanging from her arm—the deep burgundy Hermès Birkin bag. The one I'd admired. The one Dominick had lied about.

I felt sick as they walked arm-in-arm past photographers, Dahlia's smile wide and untroubled. Not a trace of remorse on her face, not a hint of grief for the child she'd killed just days ago.

---

I followed them at a distance, watching as they mingled with the elite of New York's medical community. Dominick introduced her to colleagues with pride, his hand never leaving her waist.

After the ceremony—Dominick receiving yet another award for his "innovative surgical techniques"—they slipped away from the crowd. I tracked them to the elevator, listening as Dominick whispered something in her ear that made her giggle.

The elevator doors closed before I could reach them, but I'd seen the floor number: 18.

I approached a housekeeper in the hallway, slipping her a hundred-dollar bill. "I need to check on my husband," I said, forcing a smile. "He's in room 1820. Could you let me into the hallway?"

Minutes later, I stood outside their suite, hearing the muffled sound of laughter through the door. I knocked sharply.

"Room service," I called.

The door swung open, revealing Dominick in his shirtsleeves, a champagne bottle in one hand, two flutes in the other.

"Brianna?" His shock quickly morphed into irritation. "What are you doing here?"

I pushed past him into the suite. Dahlia stood by the window, still clutching my Hermès bag, wearing nothing but Dominick's unbuttoned shirt.

"Oh," she said, not bothering to cover herself. "Hello, Brianna."

Something inside me snapped. I grabbed one of the champagne flutes from Dominick's hand and hurled the contents directly into his face.

"You son of a bitch," I screamed, my voice raw with rage. "Our son is dead because of you—because of her!"

Dahlia stepped back, her eyes wide with shock rather than remorse.

"Brianna, calm down," Dominick said, wiping champagne from his face. "This isn't what it looks like."

"It's exactly what it looks like," I spat, turning to Dahlia. "You killed my child. You murdered him with your incompetence, and here you are celebrating?"

---

"You're hysterical," Dominick hissed as he followed me back to our penthouse. "You've completely lost control."

I slammed the door behind me, but he caught it before it closed fully. He pushed his way inside, his face a mask of concern that didn't reach his eyes.

"This little scene at the gala was completely inappropriate," he said, adjusting his watch. "Do you have any idea what people will think?"

"I don't care what people think," I said, my voice shaking. "I care about our son. I care about the fact that you're protecting the woman who killed him."

Dominick sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I'm protecting the hospital from a scandal that would bankrupt us all. This isn't about Dahlia—it's about damage control."

"Damage control?" I echoed incredulously.

"Yes, damage control." His voice hardened. "And if you continue making these public scenes, I'll have no choice but to have you committed. You're clearly unstable, Brianna."

The threat hung in the air between us, chilling and real.

"You wouldn't," I whispered.

"Try me," he replied coldly. "I've worked too hard to build my reputation to let your emotional breakdown destroy everything we've built."

He turned away, straightening his cuffs. "Now clean yourself up. You look terrible."