I was sitting up in bed, weak from labor, one wrist wrapped in a hospital band and the other arm curled protectively around my newborn daughter.
The baby was only forty minutes old.
Her hair was still damp. Her tiny mouth opened and closed against the blanket as if she was learning the world by breathing it in.
And then Dominic entered.
Black tuxedo.
White rose on his lapel.
Panic under his eyes.
Behind him stood Celeste, his new bride, in a lace gown with pearls sewn into the bodice. Her veil hung crooked over one shoulder. Her mascara had run in thin black lines down her cheeks.
For one strange second, the room looked like two worlds had collided.
Birth and wedding.
Beginning and betrayal.
Blood and white lace.
Dominic stared at the baby.
Then he looked at me.
“Evelyn,” he said, breathless. “We need to talk.”
I looked past him to Celeste.
She looked less like a bride and more like a woman who had just discovered the floor beneath her was not real.
I adjusted the blanket around my daughter.
“No,” I said. “You need something signed.”
His face twitched.
That was how I knew I was right.
Six months earlier, Dominic Vale had stood in our penthouse kitchen and told me our marriage had become “bad for his image.”
He didn’t say he was leaving because he had fallen in love.
He didn’t say he had been sleeping with Celeste, the daughter of the investor who could save his failing luxury hotel project.
He didn’t say he had already promised her father a clean, scandal-free merger.
He simply placed a folder on the marble island and said, “This will be easier if you don’t fight.”
I was eight weeks pregnant.
