“Plenty,” he snapped, his voice rising now. “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 had loved. The man I had 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 drained out of me, replaced by a cold, hollow emptiness. He mistook my surrender for acquiescence. The charming smile returned.
“So it’s 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, perfunctory gesture. Then his eyes dropped to the set of keys on the bedside table. The keys to the brand-new Bentley Continental GT I had bought myself as a push present. He scooped them up.
“I’ll take this. Makes it easier to get my parents from their hotel. See? It’s more practical.”
I couldn’t speak. I just held Liam tighter and turned my face away from him. I heard the swish of his expensive jacket, the click of the door, and then silence. The room, which had felt too small moments earlier, now felt vast and echoing. Tears I did not 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 and 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 beautiful plate of scallops, the lights of the restaurant soft and glamorous in the background. The caption read:
“Wish you were here. The scallops are incredible. Xo.”
A sob caught in my throat. I opened the Find My app on my phone. One 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. Le Bernardin. I watched that dot for the entire agonizingly slow ride uptown through 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 took me farther 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 mix 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 and felt 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 undid me.
“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 transatlantic silence.
“Daddy, make him bankrupt. By tonight.”
By the time night fully settled over the penthouse, the silence had become something physical, thick and heavy. It was such a sharp contrast to the constant hum of the hospital that it felt wrong. The only sounds were the faint whir of the climate control and the tiny snuffling breaths coming from Liam, who was finally asleep in the bassinet I had painstakingly positioned beside the bed. My body ached with a deep, pervasive exhaustion, but my mind was a raging storm. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the same things: the photograph of the perfect scallops, the soft lighting of the restaurant, the casual cruelty of that text. Wish you were here. He was probably on dessert by now. Maybe a post-meal cognac, laughing with his father, while my mother’s carefully prepared meal from Daniel sat untouched in our Sub-Zero refrigerator. I pushed myself off the bed, wincing at the pull of stitches. I couldn’t just lie there. The helplessness was suffocating. I shuffled into the vast minimalist living room, moving with a slow, painful gait that made me feel eighty years old. The floor-to-ceiling windows offered a breathtaking, postcard-perfect view of Central Park, now twinkling with lights. It was a view synonymous with success, with having made it. Right then, it felt like a beautifully framed picture of my own gilded cage.
My phone buzzed again on the coffee table. Another message from Tristan. This time, a selfie. He was grinning, a glass of amber liquid in his hand, his parents flanking him, their faces flushed with happiness. The message below it read:
“Mom and Dad say hi. Can’t wait to see you and Liam. Almost done here. Xo.”
