The Surgeon's Revenge: No More Mrs. Montgomery

The sun had set hours ago when Fletcher's personal driver, Lewis, picked Alexa up from the hospital.

"We're not going home, ma'am," Lewis said, catching her eye in the mirror. He looked apologetic. "Mr. Montgomery requested your presence at the Estate. For dinner."

Alexa looked down at her simple slacks and blouse. "I'm not dressed for the Estate."

"He said it didn't matter," Lewis murmured.

The drive to Long Island took an hour. The Montgomery Estate was a sprawling gothic mansion that looked like it belonged in a horror movie about old money.

When Alexa walked into the dining room, the conversation stopped.

It was a full house. Fletcher's father, Preston, sat at the head. Cornelia was there. The long table was lined only with the inner circle of the Montgomery clan-uncles, aunts, and cousins who circled like sharks, smelling blood in the water. Fletcher sat on the right of his father.

He looked up as she entered. His eyes swept over her wrinkled clothes, her tired face. He didn't smile.

"You're late," he said.

"I was working," Alexa said, exhaustion a poor shield against their casual cruelty. She took the empty seat at the far end of the table-the children's seat, effectively.

A waiter placed a plate of soup in front of her.

"We were just discussing the merger," an uncle said, breaking the tension. "And Felicity's gallery opening. Where is Felicity, Fletcher? I thought she'd be joining us."

The table went quiet. All eyes turned to Alexa, then to Fletcher.

Fletcher took a sip of his wine. "She's busy. Curating art takes time. Unlike some people who spend their time cutting things open."

"It's noble work," Preston grunted, though he didn't look at Alexa.

"It's messy," Cornelia piped up. "And she brings that smell home. Just like that cat."

A ripple of laughter went around the table.

Fletcher swirled his glass. "Yes. Alexa has developed a fondness for strays. I think she prefers the company of animals. Maybe because they don't expect conversation."

"I heard she was feeding it milk on the marble floors," a cousin giggled. "Does she eat cat food too?"

Alexa gripped her spoon. Her knuckles turned white. "I am a cardiothoracic surgeon," she said, her voice cutting through the laughter. "I save lives. I don't eat cat food."

Fletcher slammed his wine glass down. The red liquid sloshed onto the white tablecloth like blood.

"A surgeon," he sneered. "You're so proud of your biology. Tell me, Doctor, if you're such an expert on the human body, why can't you fix your own?"

The silence that followed was absolute. It was a vacuum.

"Fletcher," Preston warned.

But Fletcher didn't stop. He stared down the length of the table at her. "We've been married seven years. And the nursery is still empty. Maybe you should spend less time fixing other people's hearts and figure out why your own womb is a wasteland."

The word wasteland hung in the air.

Alexa felt like she had been punched in the throat. The tears came instantly, hot and humiliating. This was their private struggle. Their secret pain. And he had just served it up as dinner conversation.

She stood up, her chair scraping loudly against the floor. "Excuse me."

She turned and ran. She didn't walk. She ran out of the dining room, down the long corridor lined with portraits of ancestors who all seemed to be judging her.

She made it to the powder room and locked the door. She gripped the sink, gasping for air. She looked at herself in the mirror. She looked broken.

"Did you hear what he said?" A voice drifted through the door from the hallway. Two maids were whispering. "Barren. That's why he's leaving her for Felicity. Felicity is a breeder."

Alexa turned on the tap full blast to drown them out. She splashed cold water on her face.

She couldn't stay here. She had to leave. She unlocked the door and stepped out, intending to find Lewis.

But Fletcher was waiting for her in the hallway. He was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed, his face a mask of stone.