The Billionaire's Cold And Bitter Betrayal

The taxi driver was halfway to the manor when Anjanette leaned forward, the vinyl of the seat sticking to her damp scrubs. Turn around, she said. Her voice was hollow. The driver glanced in the rearview mirror. Lady, the meter is running. Go back to the hospital. The side entrance. She couldn't explain why. It was a form of self-flagellation, perhaps. Or maybe she just needed to be absolutely certain. She needed the knife to be twisted all the way in before she could pull it out. When they arrived back at the clinic, Anjanette didn't go to the reception. She knew the layout of this building. She used to run errands here for Adam's mother, picking up prescriptions, delivering files. She slipped through a service entrance she knew was often left propped open for the laundry service, her head swimming with a dizzy spell she ruthlessly pushed down. She pulled the hood of the windbreaker up and kept her head down. The security guard at the VIP wing was new. He glanced at her, but she walked with the brisk, annoyed purpose of a staff member on a smoke break, and he let her pass. The hallway on the third floor was quiet, carpeted in plush beige that absorbed the sound of footsteps. She saw the Bentley parked outside through a window, so she knew they were still here. She crept toward the Obstetrics and Gynecology suite. The door to exam room three was ajar. She pressed her back against the wall, hidden by a large potted ficus. Her heart was beating so hard she thought it might be audible in the quiet corridor. ...everything looks perfect, Mr. Horton. A deep, professional voice drifted out. Then a lighter, breathy voice. Adam, look. You can see the little hands. Casie. Anjanette closed her eyes. A nurse walked out of the room, holding a clipboard. She paused to speak to a colleague at the station just a few feet from Anjanette. Mr. Horton is so intense, the nurse whispered, shaking her head. You'd think it was the first baby in the world. He's making us run every test twice. Well, it's early, the other nurse replied. Only twelve weeks. You have to be careful. Twelve weeks. The words hit Anjanette like a physical slap. She did the math instantly. Twelve weeks ago was mid-August. August 14th. Their third wedding anniversary. Adam had been in London. He had called her, his voice clipped and distant, saying the merger talks were running long and he couldn't make it home. Anjanette had sat at the dining table alone, blowing out the candles on a cake she had baked herself. He hadn't been in a boardroom. He had been in bed with Casie Haynes. Inside the room, Casie giggled. It's moving! He's active, Adam's voice was a low rumble. It was the voice he used when he was satisfied with a deal. Warm. Proud. Anjanette clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle the retching sound that tried to escape her throat. The bile tasted acidic and bitter. She turned and stumbled back down the hallway, her vision blurring. She collided with a janitor mopping the floor. Watch it! he snapped. Anjanette didn't hear him. All she could hear was twelve weeks, twelve weeks, twelve weeks. She made it back to the taxi and collapsed into the seat. Horton Manor, she said again. And this time, don't stop. She pulled out her phone and typed into the search bar: Adam Horton London Trip Casie Haynes. Nothing. Just press releases about Horton Industries' global expansion. Photos of Adam shaking hands with old men in suits. The PR team had scrubbed everything. It was a perfect, sanitized narrative. The taxi wound its way up the long driveway of the estate. The iron gates swung open, the hinges silent. The butler, an older man named Stevens, opened the front door as the taxi pulled up. His eyebrows shot up when he saw her getting out of a yellow cab in hospital scrubs. Madam? Stevens asked. Mr. Horton called. He said you had a minor injury. Minor, Anjanette repeated. She walked past him into the grand foyer. The house was massive and cold. It smelled of lemon polish and old money. On the wall hung a portrait of her and Adam from their wedding day. Adam looked bored. Anjanette looked hopeful. She wanted to rip it off the wall and smash it over her knee. Mrs. Perry, the housekeeper, bustled in from the kitchen. Oh, Mrs. Horton! You're back. Can I get you some tea? You look... pale. I'm fine, Anjanette said, walking toward the stairs. She passed the room that was supposed to be the nursery. It was a room Adam had told her not to decorate yet. We're not ready, he had said. Let's focus on my career first. The door was cracked open. Anjanette pushed it. The room wasn't empty. It was filled with boxes. Pink boxes. Bags from high-end baby boutiques. A crib that cost more than a Honda Civic was already assembled in the corner. She walked over to a pile of gifts on the changing table. There was a card attached to a silver rattle. For my darling Casie and the little princess. Can't wait to meet her. Love, Elaine. Elaine. Adam's mother. Anjanette's knees gave out. She grabbed the edge of the crib to steady herself. They all knew. Elaine knew. The staff probably knew. The entire world was in on the joke, and the punchline was Anjanette. She heard the heavy thud of the front door closing downstairs. Then the sound of expensive leather shoes on the marble floor. Adam was home.