My Husband Paid a Nurse to Kill Our Baby

I came back the next morning.

I had my overnight bag with me. The one I'd packed at my father's apartment the night before. I made sure it looked hastily thrown together—a sweater shoved in sideways, the zipper half-open. Details matter when you're playing a part.

The elevator doors opened. Armani was in the living room, sitting on my couch, drinking coffee from my favorite mug. She looked up when I walked in.

"Emilia." She stood. "I'm glad you're here. We need to talk about next steps."

I set my bag down slowly. Let my hand linger on the strap like I'd forgotten what I was doing. "Next steps?"

"The divorce." She spoke gently, like she was explaining something to a child. "Damon's attorney can have the papers drawn up by the end of the week, but we need your cooperation to move quickly."

I blinked. "This week? That's... that's very fast."

"It's better this way." Armani walked closer. "Clean break. No drawn-out process. You'll be taken care of, I promise. Damon's being very generous."

Generous. The word sat in the air between us.

"I don't... I'm having trouble understanding all the legal terms," I said. My voice came out small. Uncertain. "There are so many documents. What does 'marital assets' mean exactly? And the thing about... what was it called..."

I touched my temple. Frowned.

Armani's expression shifted. Pity mixed with impatience. "Don't worry about the details. That's what the lawyers are for. You just need to sign."

"Sign," I repeated. I looked at her. "When?"

"As soon as possible." She checked her phone. "Damon's attorney is available tomorrow afternoon. We can do it here, keep it private. Would that work?"

I hesitated. Let the silence stretch just long enough. "I... yes. I think so. I'll need to ask my father—"

"Of course." Armani smiled. "But Emilia, the faster we move, the easier this is for everyone. Including you."

I nodded slowly. "Okay."

She touched my shoulder. A brief, patronizing squeeze. "You're doing the right thing."

I watched her leave. Heard the elevator doors close.

Then I pulled out my phone and texted Victor: They want to move fast. Tomorrow afternoon. Let them think they're in control.

His reply: Already three steps ahead.

I smiled.

---

That afternoon, I met Victor at his office in Midtown. The building was steel and glass, anonymous. His conference room had a view of the East River.

He spread the documents across the table. Bank statements. Wire transfer records. Corporate filings from the Cayman Islands. Shell company registrations with names that meant nothing—Clearwater Holdings, Apex Ventures, Meridian Capital.

All of them traced back to Damon.

"He's been moving shares for eighteen months," Victor said. "Small amounts at first. Then larger. He's siphoned off nearly thirty percent of Greene Enterprises' equity."

I leaned over the table. Studied the numbers. "Can we prove it?"

"Absolutely." Victor tapped a highlighted section. "He got sloppy here. Used the same routing numbers twice. Connected two entities that should have stayed separate. The forensic accountant I brought in says this is prosecutable."

"How long to build the full case?"

"Two weeks. Maybe less."

I pulled out my cipher journal. The small leather notebook I'd been keeping since the miscarriage. I flipped to the back section—the one where I'd been tracking every suspicious transaction, every late-night phone call, every moment Damon thought I'd forgotten.

I'd forgotten nothing.

I copied the account numbers into my journal. Wrote the dates in my own shorthand. Victor watched.

"You've been documenting this for a while," he said quietly.

"Since I started suspecting." I didn't look up. "I needed to be sure."

"And now?"

"Now I'm sure."

I closed the journal. Locked eyes with Victor. "Let Armani think the divorce is moving forward. Let Damon think I'm confused and compliant. But I want every share accounted for. Every dollar traced. When I move, I want it to be final."

Victor nodded. "Understood."

---

That night, I made dinner.

Damon came home at eight. He looked surprised to see me in the kitchen.

"I thought you were staying with your father," he said.

"I was." I stirred the pasta. Kept my voice light. "But this is still my home. For now. I wanted... I don't know. I wanted things to feel normal for a little while longer."

He set his briefcase down. Loosened his tie. "Armani said you agreed to meet with the attorney tomorrow."

"Did I?" I frowned. "I think so. I'm sorry, I'm having trouble keeping track of what I agreed to. There's so much happening."

Damon's expression didn't change. But I saw it—the small flicker of satisfaction. Confirmation of what he already believed.

I was not a threat.

"It's tomorrow at two," he said. "Here."

"Two." I nodded. "I'll remember."

He almost smiled.

We ate in silence. I asked him twice what time his meeting had ended. The second time, he answered with barely concealed impatience.

After dinner, I found him in his office. The door was open. He was on his laptop, reviewing something.

I knocked softly. "I'm going to bed. Do you need anything?"

He didn't look up. "No."

I started to leave. Then stopped. "Damon?"

"What."

"When did we stop being happy?"

He finally looked at me. His eyes were flat. "I don't know, Emilia. When did you stop remembering?"

I let the words hit. Let my face crumple just a little. "I'm trying," I whispered.

"I know," he said. But his tone said he didn't care.

I walked away.

In the bedroom, I locked the door. Opened the safe. Added today's notes to my cipher journal.

Damon thought his perfect memory made him invincible. He remembered every lie he'd told, every move he'd made.

But he'd forgotten one thing.

I was Emerson Greene's daughter.

And I had learned from the best.