The charming mask slipped just for a second, and I saw the impatient man beneath. “For God’s sake, Amelia, don’t be so dramatic. It’s one dinner.”
“It’s not the end of the world. It’s my car, too, you know. Or have you forgotten that we’re married?”
“I haven’t forgotten anything,” I said, my voice trembling. “I haven’t forgotten that you promised. I haven’t forgotten that this is supposed to be about us becoming a family.”
“This is about family,” he shot back, standing up. “My parents are family, too. They want to celebrate their grandson, and I want one damn night to feel normal again. To not be surrounded by hospital smells and talk of diaper changes. Is that too much to ask after everything I’ve given up for this?”
The phrase hit me like a physical blow. “Given up? What have you given up, Tristan?”
“Plenty,” he said, his voice rising now. “Two, my freedom, my social life. I’ve had to work twice as hard to prove I’m not just Amelia Sinclair’s husband. Do you have any idea what that’s like, to have everyone assume your success is handed to you?”
I looked at him. Truly looked at him. This man I’d loved, the man I’d chosen to be the father of my child.
He was standing in a hospital room, complaining about his ego while I held our newborn son. The absurdity, the sheer cruelty of it, stole my breath.
“Get out,” I whispered.
The fight draining out of me, replaced by a cold, hollow emptiness. He mistook my surrender for acquiescence.
The charming smile returned. “So, it settled? I’ll call for the car service.”
“You’ll be fine. I’ll be back before you know it.” He leaned over and kissed my forehead, a dry, prefuncter gesture.
Then his eyes fell on the set of keys on the bedside table. The keys to the brand new Bentley Continental GT I bought myself as a push present.
He scooped them up. “I’ll take this. Makes it easier to get my parents from their hotel.”
He jangled the keys. “See, it’s more practical.”
I couldn’t speak. I just held Liam tighter, turning my face away from him.
I heard the swish of his expensive jacket, the sound of the door opening and closing. Silence.
The room, which had felt two small moments before, now felt vast and echoing. Tears I didn’t have the energy to cry burned behind my eyes.
I looked down at Liam. His tiny fingers curled around mine. “It’s just you and me, baby,” I murmured. “Just you and me.”
An hour later, a nurse came in with the discharge papers. She gave me a sympathetic look. “All set. Honey, is your husband parking the car?”
“He had a prior engagement,” I said, my voice unnaturally flat. “I’ll need a taxi.”
The process of leaving was a blur of pain and humiliation. I shuffled slowly, my body screaming in protest.
A nurse helped me into a wheelchair. Liam in my arms, a small bag of our things at my feet.
We descended to the main entrance. The evening air of New York was cool, a shock after the climate controlled hospital.
The doorman helped me into the backseat of a yellow cab that smelled of stale air freshener and old leather. I gave the driver the address to our building on Central Park West.
As the cab pulled away from the curb, my phone buzzed. A photo from Tristan.
A beautifully plated dish of scallops. The lights of the restaurant soft and glamorous in the background.
The caption, “Wish you were here. The scallops are incredible. Exo.”
A sob caught in my throat. I opened the Find My app on my phone.
A little pulsing dot showed the location of my phone. Another dot labeled Bentley was stationary. I zoomed in on the map.
There it was right on West 51st Street. Lou Bernardine.
I watched that dot for the entire agonizingly slow ride up town through the traffic clogged streets. It never moved.
He was there sipping expensive wine, laughing with his parents while I sat in a dirty cab, clutching our son.
Each block taking me further away from the life I thought I had. When the cab finally stopped in front of our building, our doorman, Carlos, rushed out, his face a mask of confusion and concern.
“Mrs. Blackwood, I we weren’t expecting you. Let me help you.”
He took Liam’s carrier and offered me an arm. I walked into the marble lobby.
The silence of the penthouse apartment looming above me like a judgment. It was supposed to be a homecoming.
It felt like a sentence. Carlos brought us upstairs.
The apartment was spotless, dark, and utterly empty. I took Liam out of his carrier, sank onto the huge, cold leather sofa in the living room, and finally let the tears fall.
They were silent tears, not of sadness, but of a fury so pure and cold it felt like ice in my veins. I looked at my phone.
The dot was still at the restaurant. I thought of Tristan’s words. “After everything I’ve given up.”
I scrolled through my contacts, my thumb hovering over one name. Dad.
I took a deep shaky breath and pressed call. It rang twice.
“Amelia.” My father’s voice boomed, warm and familiar. “How’s my beautiful daughter and my new grandson? Are you home? Did everything go smoothly?”
The concern in his voice was my undoing.
“Daddy,” I said, my voice low and steady, despite the tremor inside. “I’m home alone with your grandson.”
“Tristan took my car to have a fine dining experience with his family.” I paused, letting the horror of the statement hang in the transcontinental silence. “Daddy, make him bankrupt.”
