Chapter 5

“Married to a multimillionaire and still looking for a richer man.”

That was her caption.

“First she fakes a pregnancy crisis. Then she goes hunting at a private club when her husband won’t hand over cash. Book a consultation to learn the warning signs before someone like this destroys your life.”

The boutique posted its own clip.

It began with my hand around Vivienne’s wrist. It cut straight to the shattered display.

“This woman tried to sell us counterfeit designer goods. When her husband confronted her, she wrecked a five-thousand-dollar cabinet. We’re still waiting for payment.”

My face was clear in every frame. My swollen belly was visible beneath my coat.

Strangers called me a gold digger. A scammer. A disgrace to my husband.

I sat outside the examination room and called Dante.

“Vivienne posted a video saying I went to the club to find another man. I was collecting equipment for a job.”

“I know you wouldn’t go looking for another man, Elena.”

“Then have her take it down.”

“I’ll speak to her about the caption.”

“And the boutique’s video. They left out the bracelet and the part where you pulled me.”

“The video makes it look as though I attacked her and smashed the cabinet.”

“Then explain it properly. You grabbed her. I pulled you away. Neither of us handled it well.”

“She took my grandmother’s bracelet.”

“And she shouldn’t have joked about it. I’ve told her that.”

“Has she returned it?”

A pause.

“Elena, this is what Viv means. Every time we try to resolve one issue, you bring up another.”

“It’s the same bracelet.”

“I love you. I know you’re hurt. But I can’t keep being the only one admitting I made a mistake.”

I looked at the examination-room door.

“What are you asking me to admit?”

“Write a proper public apology. Explain what happened, acknowledge your part, and stop threatening divorce. Once you’ve posted the apology, we’ll sit down together.I’ll give you the ten thousand dollars, and we can start fresh.”

I had called about a false accusation. He had given me terms for being forgiven.

“My lawyer will contact you.”

“Elena—”

I ended the call.

Mom arrived from the airport an hour later. She found me in a hospital bed with a monitor strapped around my stomach.

I had started bleeding again.

She put her bag down and held my face in both hands.

“Why didn’t you tell me how bad it was?”

“I was trying to get the appointments arranged before I traveled. The lawyer is preparing the papers. Once the doctor clears me, I’m coming home with you.”

Her phone buzzed. Someone from home had sent her the video.

She watched enough to recognize me, then dropped the phone onto the blanket.

“Where is he?” she asked. “He sent me flowers last week. He signed the card ‘Your son.’ How can he let them do this to you?”

Before I could stop her, she called him.

I reached for my phone and started recording while the call rang on speaker. For once, there would be something they couldn’t tell me I had imagined.

Vivienne answered.

“More money? Isn’t this baby dead yet?”

Mom froze.

“My daughter is in the hospital,” Mom said. “Get Dante.”

“Your daughter has been milking this for days. She’s had three months as Mrs. Moretti, and the whole family thinks they’ve won the lottery.”

“Who do you think you are?”

Mom’s hand shook around her phone.

“Let me speak to my son-in-law.”

A cramp tore through me. I bent forward with a cry.

Mom ended the call and hit the call button.

The room filled with people. A nurse moved the monitor. Another called for the doctor.

I kept asking them to find the heartbeat.

Earlier, it had been there. I had heard it. Surely they only needed to move the sensor a little farther.

The doctor brought in an ultrasound machine.

I watched her face change.

“I’m so sorry, Elena.”

I shook my head.

“No. Check again.”

She did.

My baby was gone.

They treated the bleeding. They explained what had to happen next. I signed the papers with my mother holding my wrist because my hands would not stay still.

Nobody could tell me whether earlier care would have changed the outcome. They could tell me I had suffered a serious injury, and that the pregnancy had deteriorated afterward.

I knew how I had received that injury.

I knew who still wanted me to apologize for it.

Seven days later, Mom and I said goodbye to my son at a small funeral in New York. She took his ashes home to Portland. I stayed behind for one final appointment, then booked another flight to join her.

That morning, Vivienne went live.

“So, Mr. Moretti,” she said, smiling into the camera, “how would you rate my marriage coaching?”

“Ten out of ten.” He looked almost relieved. “I understand my wife much better now. She hasn’t argued in a week. She even sent back the money I transferred.”

I closed the stream.

Then I posted the photographs from our basement years. The bills I had paid. The full security footage my lawyer had obtained from the boutique. The hospital report confirming the loss of our son, with the private details blacked out. Vivienne’s recorded call.

I sent Dante an unredacted copy of the medical confirmation through his private number, along with the separation papers.

[Our son is dead. I’m leaving you.]

That was all I wrote.