The Wife He Left For Dead

Dahlia POV

Gideon dragged me through the opulent lobby of the Grand Hyatt, past the glittering chandeliers and hushed whispers, towards the private ballroom. The scent of expensive perfume and champagne hung heavy in the air, a stark contrast to the antiseptic smell of the hospital that still clung to me. He held my arm in a vice grip, his touch cold and possessive. I didn't fight him. I was done fighting him. I was just observing, collecting evidence for the war to come.

"Smile, Dahlia," he hissed as we approached the entrance. "Don't you dare ruin this for me."

I offered the barest hint of a curve to my lips, a hollow, empty gesture that felt more like a grimace. My resolve was a hard knot in my chest. This was the last time I would play this part. The last time I would be his prop. Tonight, the charade would end.

The ballroom was a sea of designer clothes and preening faces. Everyone who was anyone in the local design and architecture scene was here. And right in the center of it all, bathed in the spotlight, was Elsa Rodgers, radiating an artificial glow. She wore a shimmering gown, and a large, gaudy "Designer of the Year" trophy sat proudly on a pedestal beside her.

As Gideon steered me towards a group of his friends, their eyes immediately went to me, then to my hospital-issued wristband, then back to my pale face. Whispers started. I stood there, a ghost amidst the glitter, a stark reminder of Gideon's supposed "client emergency."

"Gideon, darling! There you are!" Elsa shrieked, rushing over to him, pushing a group of admirers aside. She launched herself into his arms, kissing him on both cheeks, her eyes darting to me with a triumphant gleam. "I was wondering where you'd run off to!"

Gideon chuckled, his arm still around her waist. "Just had to tie up some loose ends, my dear. But I'm here now. For you." He completely dismissed me, but I didn't care. I just watched, a cold, clinical detachment settling over me.

"Oh, Dahlia," Elsa finally acknowledged me, her voice dripping with fake concern. "You look so... pale. Are you feeling alright? Gideon told us you had a bit of a tummy ache last night. Poor dear."

Tummy ache. That was his version.

A friend of Elsa's, a heavily made-up socialite, chimed in, "Yes, darling, you really shouldn't overwork yourself. Leave the heavy lifting to the men, right, Gideon?" She gave him a knowing wink. "Elsa, on the other hand, she's a force of nature! Truly a visionary. Designing all those incredible pieces, launching a brand, and still managing to be such a dedicated mother! How do you do it?"

Elsa primped, basking in the adoration. "Oh, it's nothing, really. Just passion, you know? And a little help from my amazing friends." She squeezed Gideon's hand. "Especially Gideon, who's been such a surrogate father to little Leo."

My blood ran cold. Surrogate father. The words hit me harder than any physical blow. The way he looked at Elsa's child, the way he doted on him, the way he ignored our baby. This wasn't just an affair. This was a whole second life, a second family, built on my pain and his lies.

All eyes were on me then, a collective gasp. I knew my face must have betrayed my shock, my quiet horror.

Elsa, ever the manipulator, seized the moment. "Oh, Dahlia, dear, don't look so sad! We're celebrating! Let me get you a glass of champagne. It'll cheer you up!" She gestured to a passing waiter, then added, a little too loudly, "It' s on me! Tonight, everything is on me!"

"Actually," one of the guests, a young designer who looked vaguely uncomfortable, piped up, "Elsa, your designs are truly breathtaking. I saw the sketches of your latest collection. So unique, so organic. Where do you get your inspiration?"

Elsa giggled, "Oh, everywhere, darling! Life, nature, a little bit of magic..." She glanced at Gideon, a shared secret passing between them.

The knot in my stomach tightened, but not from pain this time. From a dawning, terrible suspicion. Organic. Unique. Those were my keywords. Those were the themes I explored in my college sketchbooks, in my early designs.

"Let's play a game!" another socialite chirped. "Truth or Dare! It's been ages!"

A bottle was spun. It landed on Elsa. "Truth or Dare, Elsa?"

Elsa, with a sly smile, chose "Truth."

Her friend, the one who'd praised her designs, asked, "Elsa, darling, tell us. How did you and Gideon first realize you were soulmates? Everyone says you two are practically inseparable."

Elsa giggled, her eyes sparkling. She glanced at Gideon, who was preening under the attention. "Oh, you know, we've always had a special connection. Since we were kids. Gideon just gets me. He understands my vision, my dreams..." She paused, her gaze flicking to me for a fraction of a second, a flicker of triumph there. "He's always been my biggest supporter."

My hands clenched, nails digging into my palms. I felt a surge of cold fury, but I kept my face impassive. This was the public declaration. The open mockery.

"And how does Dahlia feel about this 'special connection'?" another guest dared to ask, their eyes wide with morbid curiosity.

Elsa pouted sweetly. "Oh, Dahlia's a sweetheart. She understands. She knows Gideon would never do anything to hurt her. We're just friends. Honest!" Her eyes, however, told a different story. They were mocking, condescending.

I felt a strange sense of detachment, as if I were watching a play unfold, and I was merely a background character. All their fawning, all their sycophantic praise for Elsa, it was like a buzzing in my ears. I' d seen it before. Gideon always had a 'friend' or a 'muse' who took up all his time and attention. But Elsa was different. She was a black hole, sucking in everything around her, especially Gideon.

Before Gideon, I had loved my designs. My sketches. My ideas. I had a vision, a spark. He had told me to put it aside, to focus on his architectural firm. He' d said my talent was "too fragile" for the cutthroat industry. He'd gaslit me into believing I wasn't good enough, that my ideas were childish, undeveloped. He' d meticulously archived all my work, supposedly for "inspiration" for his firm, but really, to keep them hidden, to suppress me.

Now, as I looked at Elsa, at her smug smile, at the gaudy trophy, a horrifying thought began to form. My initial suspicion about her designs wasn' t just about the keywords. It was about something deeper, something I had buried for years.

"Alright, enough of the sentimental stuff!" the socialite who suggested the game cried out. "Next round! Spin the bottle!"

The bottle spun again. It landed on me.

My heart gave a lurch. This was it.

"Truth or Dare, Dahlia?" Elsa asked, her eyes glittering with malice. She knew I was vulnerable. She knew I was here against my will. This was her chance to humiliate me.

I met her gaze, a cold, hard resolve settling over me. "Truth." I had nothing left to hide. Nothing left to lose.

Elsa exchanged a look with Gideon, a flicker of surprise on his face. He probably expected me to pick dare, to refuse, to make a scene. But I was beyond caring about scenes.

"Alright, Dahlia," Elsa purred, her voice sweet as poison. "Tell us, honestly. What do you really think about Gideon's success? And about... us?" She gestured between herself and Gideon, a casual intimacy that made my stomach churn.

I took a deep breath, the stale champagne air filling my lungs. "I think Gideon thrives on others' validation," I said, my voice clear and steady, cutting through the sudden silence in the room. "And as for 'us'..." I looked pointedly at Gideon, then at Elsa, a bitter smile playing on my lips. "There is no 'us.' Not anymore. I'm divorcing Gideon."

A gasp rippled through the crowd. Gideon's face went white. Elsa's smile froze.

"What are you talking about, Dahlia?" Gideon hissed, gripping my arm again, his eyes wide with panic. "You're just upset. You don't mean that."

"Oh, I mean it," I said, pulling my arm free. "I mean it with every fiber of my being. You chose your 'soulmate' and her launch party over my life. So yes, Gideon, we're done."

He stammered, trying to regain his composure, his charismatic façade cracking. "Dahlia, baby, come on. Don't do this. We can talk. I'll make it up to you. Anything you want. A new car? A trip?"

His words were like a slap. He thought he could buy me. He thought my pain, my loss, my dignity could be bought with a car or a trip.

"Next round!" someone shouted, perhaps trying to diffuse the tension, or perhaps simply craving more drama. The bottle spun, wobbling to a stop.

It pointed directly at me. Again.

"Truth or Dare, Dahlia?" Elsa asked, her initial shock replaced by a cruel smirk. "I'll pick for her! Dare!" She practically crowed, enjoying my public humiliation. "I dare you, Dahlia," she continued, her eyes alight with malicious glee, "to drink a shot of... tequila! Right now! Prove you're not such a delicate flower after all!"

A shot of tequila. On an empty, recently operated-on stomach. After losing a pregnancy. It was a vicious, calculated move.

I felt Alva's presence, a phantom weight of concern, in the back of my mind. He knew I shouldn't.

Gideon, surprisingly, tried to intervene. "Elsa, don't be ridiculous. Dahlia just got out of the hospital." He was trying to save face, to appear like a concerned husband, not because he actually cared for my health, but because he was embarrassed.

"Oh, come on, Gideon!" Elsa whined, pouting. "It's just a little bit of fun! Unless... Dahlia's really that fragile? Does she have something to hide?" She looked pointedly at my stomach.

My gaze locked with hers. Fragile? Something to hide? You have no idea, Elsa.

A cold, defiant anger pulsed through me. I reached for the tequila bottle on the table, my hand steady. If she wanted a show, I'd give her one.

"Dahlia, no!" Gideon grabbed my wrist, his eyes wide, truly panicked now. He probably didn't want me to get sick here, publicly. "Don't do it! You're still recovering!"

"Let go of me, Gideon," I said, my voice dangerously low. "You wanted a show. You got it." I yanked my arm free, grabbed a shot glass, and poured the clear liquid.

"Dahlia, stop!" Gideon roared, his face contorted in a mix of fury and fear. He couldn't control me. And that realization seemed to drive him insane. "You are my wife! You will not embarrass me like this!"

His words. My wife. The irony was a bitter taste. He thought he owned me. He thought he could dictate my every move, even as he openly flaunted his affair.

Elsa, seeing Gideon's distress, stepped in, her voice deceptively sweet. "Gideon, it's fine! Just a little shot. It won't hurt her. If she can't even handle this, then what good is she?" Her eyes were still on my stomach, a calculating gleam there. She knew. She must have guessed about the pregnancy. And she wanted me to miscarry.

Gideon' s rage exploded. He roughly snatched the shot glass from my hand. Then, with a sudden, violent movement, he shoved it to my lips, forcing the burning liquid down my throat.

I gasped, choking, the tequila searing my esophagus. My body, already weak, buckled under the force. I lost my footing, falling backwards, my head hitting the edge of a nearby table with a sickening thud. The world spun. A sharp, agonizing pain erupted in my lower abdomen, worse than anything before.

I screamed, a primal sound torn from my throat. My hands instinctively flew to my stomach, pushing down, trying to stop the searing pain.

Gideon, momentarily shocked by his own violence, knelt beside me, his face a mask of fleeting concern. "Dahlia? Are you okay?" Then his eyes narrowed. "You're just being dramatic again, aren't you? Trying to get attention."

But then, as I clutched myself, desperately trying to hold myself together, a fresh warmth spread between my legs. I looked down.

A dark, crimson stain was rapidly blooming on my pale dress, spreading outwards, soaking the expensive fabric.

Someone screamed. "She's bleeding! My God, she's bleeding!"