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I sat on the edge of the examination table, the crinkle of the sanitary paper sounding like thunder in the sterile room. The doctor didn't even look at me as he confirmed the news: the pregnancy was over. My husband, Keyon, didn't answer my call. He just sent an automated text: "In a meeting." When I returned to our cold mansion, I found his iPad glowing with a message from his "muse," Katina. He was throwing her a secret gala tonight-on our third wedding anniversary. He told her he couldn't wait to escape the "boring" and "draining" atmosphere I created at home. Keyon didn't stumble in until 3 AM, smelling of Katina's perfume with a smear of red on his collar. When I handed him the divorce papers, he laughed in my face. He called me a "glorified housekeeper" with no skills and no future, promising I'd be back in three days begging for a subway ticket. He even bet his friends ten thousand dollars that I wouldn't survive a week without his name. He had his assistant cancel my credit cards and block my gate access before I even reached the end of the driveway. He wanted me to starve. He wanted me to crawl. He sat in his office, mocking the "desperate" woman who pawned her three-million-dollar wedding ring for scrap metal just to pay for a meal. I stood on the rainy curb, watching the man I had protected for three years treat my life like trash. He didn't know about the ultrasound I just threw in the bin. He didn't know that while he was calling me "dull," I was the one secretly writing the code that kept his billion-dollar empire from collapsing. As I slid into a cheap Uber, I opened a hidden, encrypted app on my phone. The screen refreshed to a dashboard for an account Keyon didn't know existed. The balance was ten figures long-the accumulated wealth of "Solaris," the world's most elusive tech genius. Keyon thinks he just evicted a parasite, but he's about to find out he just declared war on the only person who can hit "delete" on his entire life.
Contents
Chapter 1 1
Elodie sat on the edge of the examination table, the crinkling of the sanitary paper beneath her thighs sounding like thunder in the small, sterile room. Her fingers were white where they gripped the strap of her handbag, the leather biting into her palm.
The doctor did not look at her. He was scrolling through data on his iPad, his face illuminated by the artificial blue light.
"The uterine lining is severely damaged, Mrs. Schneider," he said. His voice was flat, professional, devoid of any warmth. "As we discussed previously, the stress levels are likely a contributing factor to the rejection."
Elodie opened her mouth, but her throat felt like it had been packed with dry cotton. She wanted to ask why. She wanted to ask if there was anything she could have done differently in the last forty-eight hours.
But the doctor was already standing up. He tapped the screen of his device and set it on the counter.
"Take a few weeks to rest. My nurse will see you out."
He didn't wait for a response. He walked out the door, already mentally preparing for the next VIP patient in the next room, leaving Elodie alone with the hum of the air conditioner and the hollow ache in her abdomen.
She walked out to the curb where the black Maybach was waiting. The driver, a man who had worked for the Schneider family for ten years, did not look in the rearview mirror as she slid into the back seat. He simply pressed a button, and the privacy divider slid up with a soft hiss, sealing her in a soundproof glass box.
It was quiet. Too quiet.
Elodie pulled her phone from her purse. She stared at the screen. Keyon.
She hesitated, her thumb hovering over the call button. She needed to hear a voice. Even if it was impatient. Even if it was cold. She just needed to tell someone that there was no baby, that there never would be a baby.
She pressed call.
It rang once.
Click.
The screen went black, then lit up immediately with an automated text message.
In a meeting.
Elodie let the phone drop into her lap. She stared out the tinted window as the city blurred by, the grey steel of the skyscrapers matching the numbness spreading through her chest.
When she arrived at the Schneider estate, the house loomed over the driveway like a mausoleum. It was a massive structure of stone and glass, designed to impress, not to comfort.
She walked inside. The foyer was cold. The air conditioning was always set to sixty-eight degrees because Keyon preferred it crisp.
Mrs. Lee, the head housekeeper, bustled past the hallway carrying a stack of linens. She stopped when she saw Elodie, but she didn't ask about the appointment. She didn't ask why Elodie looked like a ghost.
"Mrs. Schneider," Mrs. Lee said, her tone clipped. "You didn't approve the dinner menu for tomorrow. The chef is waiting."
"I'm sorry," Elodie whispered.
Mrs. Lee sighed, a short, sharp sound of annoyance, and continued down the hall.
Elodie walked into the main living room. She sat on the edge of the sofa, her knees pressed together. On the marble coffee table, Keyon's spare iPad sat next to a crystal coaster.
It lit up.
The vibration against the stone table made a low buzzing sound.
Elodie looked at it. A notification banner stretched across the lock screen.
iMessage from Katina B.
Elodie felt a physical jolt in her stomach, sharper than the cramps she had been fighting all morning.
She reached out. Her hand trembled. She swiped the screen. The passcode was 081588. Keyon's birthday. August 15th.
It unlocked.
The message opened. It wasn't just text. It was a PDF attachment titled Welcome Home, My Muse - Gala Planning.
Elodie tapped it. The document loaded. It was a detailed itinerary for a party tonight. A celebration for Katina Bartlett's return to New York. The venue was a private club in Tribeca.
The date was today.
Today was her third wedding anniversary.
She scrolled up.
Keyon: Finally leaving the office. God, I can't wait to get away from the gloomy atmosphere at home. It's suffocating. See you in twenty.
Katina: Don't be late. I'm wearing that dress you bought.
Elodie dropped the iPad onto the carpet.
She stood up and ran to the first-floor powder room. She gripped the edges of the cold marble sink and dry heaved until her eyes watered and her ribs ached. Nothing came out. She hadn't eaten in two days.
She looked up at the mirror. The woman staring back was a stranger. Her skin was pale, her eyes sunken. She looked like a decoration that had been left out in the rain.
For three years, she had been quiet. She had been the perfect accessory. She had dimmed her light so Keyon could shine brighter.
And he called it suffocating.
She reached into her purse and pulled out the small, crumpled ultrasound photo she had been holding onto, the one from before the heartbeat stopped. She had planned to show it to him tonight, to try and find some shared grief, some shared comfort.
She looked at the grainy image one last time.
Then she crushed it in her fist and dropped it into the pedal bin next to the toilet.
She walked out of the bathroom. Her heels clicked against the marble floor. The sound was different now. It was louder. Purposeful.
She climbed the stairs to the master bedroom. She didn't turn on the lights. She walked straight to the walk-in closet, pushed aside a row of winter coats, and revealed the wall safe.
She spun the dial.
Inside, beneath a stack of bonds, lay a blue folder. She had prepared it six months ago, on a night when Keyon had told her she was embarrassing him by breathing too loudly at a charity dinner.
She took out the divorce papers.
She walked to the small vanity table, uncapped a fountain pen, and looked at the signature line.
There was no hesitation. No shaking. She pressed the nib to the paper and signed Elodie Dickson. The pen scratched through the paper, tearing it slightly on the final stroke.
She capped the pen.
She looked at her left hand. The diamond on her ring finger was massive, a symbol of ownership rather than affection. Her fingers were swollen from the medical procedure and the stress. She tugged at the ring. It wouldn't budge. It was stuck, biting into her flesh.
She tugged again, harder, until skin turned red.
It wasn't coming off.
She let out a short, bitter laugh and dropped her hand.
She turned to the closet. Rows of designer gowns, color-coordinated by season, hung in plastic bags. She ignored them all.
She reached to the top shelf and pulled down a battered canvas duffel bag. It was the bag she had used in college.
She packed three t-shirts. Two pairs of jeans. Underwear.
Then she reached under the bottom drawer of the vanity and pulled out an old, thick laptop. It was scratched, heavy, and looked like electronic waste compared to the sleek devices Keyon insisted on.
She put the laptop in the bag.
She zipped it up.
Elodie walked downstairs and sat on the sofa in the living room. She didn't turn on the lights. She sat in the dark, her hands folded in her lap, the duffel bag at her feet.
She waited.
Hours passed. The house settled around her, groaning in the wind.
At 3:00 AM, headlights swept across the front windows, cutting through the darkness like searchlights. The roar of a sports car engine shattered the silence.
She heard the heavy front door unlock. The tumblers clicked.
Keyon walked in. He smelled of cold air and expensive scotch. He reached for the light switch and flooded the room with blinding brilliance.
He stopped when he saw her.
He frowned, looking at her sitting rigid on the sofa in the middle of the night.
"What are you doing sitting in the dark?" he asked, his voice thick with annoyance. "You look like a ghost."
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