The air in Mount Sinai’s private maternity ward was thick with antiseptic and the faint sweetness of lilies, a mixture that felt almost suffocating. I sat on the edge of the bed, every muscle aching, cradling Leo, our two-day-old son. He slept with the serenity of someone untouched by the chaos around him, unaware that his father saw him not as a miracle, but as a ledger entry. Across the room, Daniel leaned against the window, sunlight glinting off his bespoke Italian suit. He checked his Rolex again, a twitch I’d memorized over three years, his eyes never leaving the screen of his phone.
“Are you done yet, Elena?” he asked, voice sharp, detached. “The Series B press release drops in an hour. Appearance is everything.”
I adjusted the cotton dress I wore—a garment he always mocked as “plain”—its history unknown to him. It was from the life I had before him, a life he never bothered to understand. “The doctor said I need rest, Daniel. I lost a lot of blood.”
“Rest costs money,” he scoffed. “Vortex is bleeding cash. You’re just adding to the overhead. I should’ve put you in the general ward; at least the noise would’ve motivated you to leave faster.”
For three years, I had been invisible: the silent, supporting wife, the backdrop to his self-proclaimed genius. I cooked, I cleaned, I stayed out of his high-stakes video calls. He believed his company’s miraculous recovery was thanks to some mysterious “Angel Investor” in Zurich. He had no idea it was me, operating through the resources of Legacy Holdings, my father’s firm. I’d hidden my identity to see if he loved me, not the illusion of me. The verdict, sitting there in his glare, was damning.
When the nurse arrived with the discharge papers, Daniel snatched them without a word, already thinking about lunch with his mother and sister at Nobu. As we left, I whispered, “Enjoy the appetizer, Daniel… because you’re about to choke on the main course.”
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