The Daughter My Ex Ordered Me to Lose

"The one who isn't loved is the mistress."

Serena Frost delivered the line from the center of my foyer, her manicured fingers looped possessively around my husband's arm. She stood in the exact spot where I had tied Gideon's ties every morning for four years, the heels of her red stilettos sinking into the white Persian rug.

I had bought that rug six years earlier, the same week I emptied three million dollars from my trust to keep CrossTech out of bankruptcy.

Beyond Serena, the dining table was set for two. Two plates. Two wineglasses. Two folded linen napkins. On the console, our silver-framed wedding photograph lay facedown.

Gideon did not pull away from her. He adjusted one cuff and looked at me as though I were an appointment he had forgotten to cancel.

"How did you get in, Vivienne?"

My right hand remained inside my coat pocket. My fingertips rested on the slick paper of an eight-week ultrasound. Beside it was an old USB drive containing the forty-two-page restructuring plan I had written when his company had eighteen days of payroll left.

Back then, I had been his miracle.

Tonight, I was apparently trespassing in the house my money had saved.

"This is my home," I said. "I used my key."

Serena's smile sharpened. "The locks were changed yesterday. The housekeeper forgot to secure the service door."

I kept my eyes on Gideon. "Tell her to leave."

"Serena stays." His voice held no heat, which somehow made it worse. "You're the one who needs to pack."

The grandfather clock ticked behind me. Rain struck the tall windows in hard, slanting sheets.

"I paid for this house," I reminded him. "I kept your company alive when every bank in Manhattan turned you down."

"And I repaid the loan with interest."

"You repaid the principal. You never paid for the plan, the suppliers I brought back, or the contracts I kept from walking."

"CrossTech is mine," he said. "The deed is in my name. Your money bought you four years of pretending this marriage worked. Consider the lease expired."

Serena traced one finger down his lapel. "Don't make this uglier than it has to be. He hasn't loved you in years."

"Is that what he says when he leaves your bed and comes home to mine?"

A muscle jumped in Gideon's jaw. "Enough."

I stepped forward and caught his wrist. Serena gasped when I pulled his hand away from her. Before he could resist, I pressed his palm against my lower abdomen.

"I'm pregnant."

For one breath, nobody moved.

Then Gideon tore his hand away as if I had burned him. He wiped his palm against his trousers and looked toward the staircase. A manila folder sat on the bottom step beside a photograph of a silver camellia brooch.

"End it," he said.

I stared at him. "What?"

"Get an abortion. Do not use a child to trap me in a dead marriage."

Serena moved closer to his shoulder. "A baby won't make him love you, Vivienne. It will only make the divorce more complicated."

"Stay out of this."

"Don't speak to her that way," Gideon snapped, stepping between us.

From behind him, Serena said, "I know a private clinic. Gideon can cover the bill. No reporters, no record—"

"Stop." My voice cracked like a whip. "Both of you, stop."

Gideon glanced at his watch. "Leave your keys on the counter. We have dinner reservations at eight."

A bitter laugh escaped me. "You want me to kill our child so you can make a reservation?"

"Stop dramatizing it. At eight weeks, it is not a child to me."

The words landed with terrifying precision.

He turned toward Serena. "Call Mercer. Tell him to draft the divorce petition tonight."

I pulled the ultrasound from my pocket. The small black-and-white image trembled between my fingers.

"Look at it once," I said. "You can hate me tomorrow. Just look at your baby tonight."

He spun back and slapped the paper from my hand.

The scan fluttered onto the rug, faceup between us.

"I said no." He pointed toward the door. "You are leaving."

I looked at the tiny pale shape on the page, then at the man I had married. There was no hesitation in his face, no grief he was trying to hide. Whatever love I had spent years protecting had died without telling me.

I slid the wedding band from my finger. It came off too easily.

The ring struck the floor, rolled once, and stopped on top of the ultrasound.

"This was not a plea for you to keep me," I said. "It was your last chance to know this child existed."

Serena crossed the foyer and pulled open the front door. Freezing rain blew inside, soaking the hem of my coat.

"Goodbye, Vivienne."

I walked into the storm without giving either of them the satisfaction of seeing me break.

The oak door slammed behind me. The deadbolt turned with a metallic snap.

That sound did what Gideon's words had not. My lungs seized. I stumbled down the stone steps, one hand pressed to my chest and the other wrapped around my stomach.

I ran.

Rain swallowed the streetlights. Water flooded my shoes, and my hair plastered across my eyes. I listened for the door to open, for Gideon's footsteps, for one shout telling me he had made a mistake.

Only thunder followed me.

At the intersection, a black sedan came around the corner too fast. Its rear tires lost their grip on the slick pavement. The car fishtailed, jumped the curb, and turned its headlights directly toward me.

I twisted, trying to shield my stomach.

The grille struck my hip.

I hit the hood hard enough to fracture the windshield, then rolled onto the pavement. Pain tore through my side. Blood filled my mouth with the taste of metal.

Warmth spread beneath my coat and thinned into the rain.

I curled around my abdomen, clawing at the wet fabric as the sedan's driver stumbled toward me with a phone in his hand.

"My baby," I whispered.

The man dropped to his knees beside me.

"Dispatch, she's pregnant," he shouted into the phone. "Send an ambulance now."

I tried to hold on to his voice, but the rain dragged everything into darkness.