2

Elena's Pov

"Is my baby okay?"

The words slipped from my mouth before I could even open my eyes. Shaken by my motherly instinct, it had lingered while I was still even unconscious. The steady beeping of the monitor increased, matching the wildness of my heartbeat.

White ceiling. Smell of antiseptic. Hospital.

I noticed a doctor standing beside me, clutching a clipboard in his hand, and his expression masked with empathy. I just hoped and pleaded quietly to anything that could help that it wasn't what I was thinking.

"Mrs. Spencer," the doctor began, his voice restrained in a way that can only deliver bad news. "I am Dr. Andrews."

My hands instinctively went to my stomach. Flat. Empty. Where there had been the firm fullness of being alive, there was now only softness.

"I'm afraid we were unable to save your child." He said, the words falling from his lips like a stone sinking underwater.

The words hit me like invisible bricks. My child...was dead.

"You had a placental abruption," the doctor explained, his voice waxing in and out like I was underwater. "By the time you arrived, there was too much bleeding. We performed an emergency C-section in the hopes of saving you both, but."

The room lurched sideways. The beeping on the monitor sped up to match the thunder in my skull. My son. My poor little boy who would never hear his name. Who would never hear me sing lullabies to him? Who would never feel sunshine on his face or laughter or tears or growth?

"No," I whispered, my voice a weak thread that broke as soon as it left my lips. "No, it can't be. I can still feel him moving."

The nurse leaned in, her hand on my arm. "That's phantom sensation, sweetie. It's normal when you've had a loss."

Loss. How tiny a word for the void that had yawned inside me.

"There has to be some mistake," I argued, trying to sit up, disregarding the flames that seared through my abdomen at the motion. "Please check again. Please."

Dr. Andrews shook his head, his face a mixture of frustration and sympathy. "Mrs. Spencer, I know this is hard to accept, but—"

The door opened, interrupting him. My sister Sophia swept in, impeccably attired in designer duds that hadn't been wrinkled by long hours in uncomfortable waiting room seats. Her hair was styled, makeup perfect. She looked as if she was off to a business meeting, not a hospital vigil.

"Elle, you're awake!" she said, voice dripping with syrupy pretend worry. Her eyes, though, glinted with something else entirely. "We've been so worried."

We. Not James. My husband wasn't even here.

"Where is he?" I rasped, my throat sore from intubation hours I couldn't recall.

Sophia's smile remained steady. "James is with your mother-in-law, taking care of a few things." She faced the doctor. "Can we have a moment alone, please? Family issues."

Dr. Andrews nodded. "Okay. I'll return later to discuss your recovery schedule, Mrs. Spencer."

After the doctors departed, Sophia shut the door with a soft click that managed to sound final. Like the lid of a coffin.

"Good grief," she said, her mask dropping as soon as we were alone. "You did it again, didn't you? Couldn't even bring a baby to term."

the

The words cut into me, bleeding with emotion as real as the physical hemorrhage that had nearly killed me. I looked at her, at this woman who shared my blood, who had grown up alongside me, who now regarded me with such open contempt.

"My son is dead," I sobbed, tears streaming down my face. "How can you—"

"Oh, for goodness' sake, Elle," Sophia cut in, taking the visitor's chair and elegantly crossing her legs. "You've always done this. Everything's a disaster, everyone has to stop and console poor, delicate Elena."

My fingers were curled in the hospital sheets, white-knuckled and tense. The void within the spread fills up everything—hope, warmth, belief in anything is good.

"Why?" I demanded, the inquiry embracing so much more than her present spite. Why the betrayal? Why my husband? Why my child?

Sophia laughed, the harsh noise breaking like falling glass. "Why? Because you've never had to try for anything in your life. The doting parents, the ideal husband, the lovely home. And what did you do with it all? Nothing. You were just. Existing. Taking space. Being pathetically grateful for crumbs."

Each word hammered another nail into the coffin of our sisterhood. Years of memories—braiding each other's hair, sharing secrets under blanket forts, vowing to be bridesmaids at each other's weddings—all proved to be as substantial as smoke.

"James needed a real woman," she continued, examining her manicure. "Somebody ambitious, with sparkle. Not some sad housewife who doesn't have any existence outside being Mrs. Spencer."

The screen next to me beeped more rapidly as my heart sped up. A mechanical voice somewhere in the equipment alerted high heart rate.

"You should listen to what Evelyn is saying," Sophia told me, addressing my mother-in-law by her given name with confident informality that was eloquent.

"Evelyn?" I repeated, the word tasting bitter in my mouth.

The door opened once more, and James walked in, accompanied by his mother—a tall woman whose refined silver hair and crisp suit oozed power and old money. They were lost in talk, so caught up that they hardly registered my presence within the room.

"It's the only reasonable solution, James," Evelyn was saying, her voice laced with the sharp accents of the finishing schools and country clubs. "Elena has proved herself. Unsatisfactory. The Spencer line has to be perpetuated, and she clearly cannot provide that stability."

James nodded, his expression contemplative rather than devastated. No trace of grief for his deceased son. No suggestion that his world had collapsed along with mine.

"What are you talking about?" I asked, my voice feeble but determined.

They turned as though taken by surprise by my wakefulness. James had the decency to look briefly discomfited, but Evelyn's gaze was unflinching.

"Ah, Elena. I was just explaining to James that because of the recent. Complications, we should consider implementing the contingency clause in your marriage contract."

"Contingency clause?" I echoed, as though I had awakened in some parallel universe where everything was topsy-turvy.

"Mother thinks," James started, clearing his throat, "we should demote you and make Sophia Luna."

The unfamiliar word hung in the air. "Luna?"

"Primary wife," Sophia provided, struggling to maintain the victory from her tone. "It's an old Spencer family tradition. When the first wife doesn't produce an heir, a second is taken, and the hierarchy shifts."

Agony ran through my veins, sharper than the bodily pain of my operation scars. I'd lost my unborn child—our unborn child—and they were already discussing replacing me as if I were a broken machine.

"This isn't the 18th century," I protested half-heartedly, my eyes blurry with tears. "You can't just—"

"The Spencer family doesn't operate by normal rules," Evelyn interjected, her voice glacial. "Our family has been around for generations, and we have rules for all eventualities. Including wives who fail to carry out their main purpose."

James couldn't even glance at me. His eyes were focused on a point somewhere behind my bed, his expression remote, as though I was already disappearing from his life.

"James," I implored, holding out a shaking hand to him. "Our son just passed away. How can you even consider this at a time like this?"

"That's precisely why we must think about it now," Evelyn spoke up for him. "The Spencer name requires an heir. Sophia has already shown herself. Suitable for James. And unlike you, she's made of strong stuff. No background of reproductive weakness. "

Her casual cruelty left me breathless. I looked to James, expecting— hoping—he'd rise to my defense, end this insanity, and grieve with me for the child we'd created together.

He replied nonetheless, "We'll talk about the details when you're well, Elena."

Such humanity. Such compassion. I wished to scream, to pull the IV from my arm and run from this nightmare, but my body was too weak, too battered to respond to my demands.

"Leave," I whispered, the words hardly spoken. "All of you. Leave."

Sophia rose with a self-satisfied smile. "We'll let you rest, Elle. You look terrible." She threaded her arm to hr, ough James's, the action both possessive and habitual. "The doctors say you can go home tomorrow. James and I will arrange for your transportation home." They departed in silence, Evelyn at the front like a field marshal deploying his troops, James and Sophia striding out at military pace behind her. The door closed silently behind them, its click an echo through which I was alone with the bleeping monitor and the empty hollowness inside. Hours passed in a blur of nurse visits and uneaten meals. No one returned. No flowers were delivered. No cards. As though I was already erased from their lives, my hu, rt, and grief were an inconvenience best not acknowledged. When discharge time came, there was no James, no Sophia, no one to bring me home.

One of the sympathetic nurses led me to a taxi, her eyes full of concern.

"Are you sure there's no one I can call for you?"

I let out a forced smile. "I'm sure." The lie tasted bitter as ash on my tongue. The driver continued to glance at me through the mirror, concerned about my paleness.

I always clutched my stomach with every swirl and bump we took. And when we finally reached the mansion I called home, he finally looked me in the eyes.

"You take care of yourself, ma'am." He said as he declined the tip I wanted to give him. "And get someone good to stay with you, alright?"

But there was no one left to call. The house was quiet when I came in, the sort of quiet that rings in your ears and against your skin. No lights were on. There was no greeting to be had. Just shadows and nothingness. I crept towards the kitchen, each step sending waves of pain coursing through my stomach.

Getting a glass of water was like scaling a mountain, with my body resisting every move.

That's when I spotted them—papers laid out carefully across the kitchen island, a pen sitting exactly next to them. From across the room, I could read the title on the front page.

My legs gave way, and I collapsed down the kitchen cabinets to the chilly tile floor.

The surgical incision along my lower belly burned as though it was going to tear open due to my sobs.

Not even the courtesy of a conversation. Not even the pretense of concern.....

Just divorce papers.