Chapter 2: Invisible

Elena's POV

I barely slept. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw those two tiny dots on the ultrasound screen, pulsing with life I never meant to create. By the time my alarm went off at four thirty, I'd already been awake for an hour, staring at the ceiling of the guest bedroom where I slept most nights.

Tristan preferred it that way. Our arrangement was simple: I existed in his penthouse like a ghost, taking up as little space as possible. The master bedroom was his domain. I was only invited in when he needed me, and even then, it was always on his terms.

I dragged myself to the bathroom and immediately regretted it. The nausea hit me like a wave, and I barely made it to the toilet before I was violently sick. Morning sickness. Of course. As if this situation wasn't complicated enough.

When the wave passed, I brushed my teeth three times and studied my reflection in the mirror. Dark circles shadowed my green eyes. My brown hair hung limp around my face. I looked exactly like what I was: a woman falling apart.

I had to pull myself together. Tristan noticed everything in the OR. If I showed up looking like this, he'd know something was wrong.

Makeup helped hide the worst of it. I pulled my hair back into a tight bun, the same style I wore every day. Navy scrubs, sensible shoes, my hospital badge clipped to my chest. Dr. Elena Rossi, Surgical Assistant. Not Dr. Elena Caine, because that woman didn't exist anywhere but on a marriage certificate locked in Tristan's safe.

The penthouse was silent when I emerged from my room. Tristan's bedroom door was closed, which meant he'd come home at some point during the night. Probably late, after his dinner with Serena. The thought made my stomach turn again, though this time it had nothing to do with pregnancy hormones.

I grabbed my bag and headed for the door, desperate to avoid any interaction. I almost made it.

"Leaving without breakfast?"

His voice stopped me in my tracks. I turned to find Tristan standing in the hallway, wearing nothing but dark pajama pants. His black hair was disheveled from sleep, and his steel-gray eyes assessed me with the same clinical precision he used in the OR.

"I'm not hungry," I lied.

"You look terrible." He moved closer, and I caught the scent of his cologne mixed with sleep. "Are you sick?"

"I'm fine. Just tired."

His jaw tightened. "You're my surgical assistant, Elena. I need you alert and focused today. We have a complex valve replacement scheduled for nine."

Not "are you okay" or "do you need to rest." Just concern about my usefulness to him. Typical.

"I'll be ready," I said, hating how small my voice sounded.

Tristan studied me for another long moment, and I was terrified he could somehow see through me to the secret growing inside. But then he just nodded and turned away. "Don't be late."

The dismissal stung, as it always did. I left the penthouse and drove to the hospital through the pre-dawn darkness, my hands shaking on the steering wheel.

Caine-Vitale Medical Institute rose before me, all glass and steel and prestige. The name was a constant reminder of who really mattered. Tristan had founded the research institute with Serena five years ago, when they were both finishing their residencies. Their names, linked together forever. Caine-Vitale.

Not Caine-Rossi. Never that.

I parked in the employee garage and made my way through the familiar corridors. The hospital was just coming to life, nurses starting their shifts, residents stumbling in with coffee. I kept my head down, invisible as always.

"Elena!"

I turned to find Linda hurrying toward me, her tablet clutched to her chest. She was the only person here who knew the truth about my marriage, and right now, her concerned expression told me I looked even worse than I thought.

"Are you alright?" she asked quietly, glancing around to make sure no one could overhear. "You look pale."

"I'm fine. Just a rough night."

Linda's eyes narrowed. She'd been Tristan's assistant for six years, long enough to recognize a lie when she heard one. "Is it him? Did something happen?"

Everything and nothing, I wanted to say. Instead, I just shook my head. "I need to prep for surgery. I'll see you later."

I escaped to the women's locker room and changed into my surgical scrubs. The mirror showed me what everyone else would see: a competent, unremarkable surgical assistant. No one would guess I was carrying twins. No one would suspect my world was imploding.

By six, I was in Tristan's office, as commanded. He sat behind his massive desk, reviewing patient files, looking every inch the renowned cardiac surgeon who graced medical journals and conference stages. When I entered, he didn't even glance up.

"The Henderson case," he said, sliding a file aCaine the desk. "Review it. I want your assessment before we scrub in."

I took the file, my fingers brushing his for just a second. Even that brief contact sent electricity through me, the same unwanted attraction that had haunted me since the day we met. Since before we were married, when I was just a medical illustration student doing a rotation at this hospital and he was the brilliant young surgeon everyone wanted to work with.

I'd fallen in love with him then. Quietly, hopelessly. When he'd needed a wife to satisfy the hospital board after some scandal with a pharmaceutical rep, and he'd offered me this cold arrangement, I'd signed. Because being near him, even like this, had seemed better than not having him at all.

How stupidly naive I'd been.

I read through the Henderson file, forcing myself to focus. Seventy-two-year-old male, aortic valve stenosis, high surgical risk due to previous heart attack. Complex but manageable.

"The calcification around the valve is extensive," I said, keeping my voice professional. "You'll need to be careful with the debridement."

"Obviously." Tristan's tone was clipped. "What else?"

"His ejection fraction is lower than ideal. Post-op recovery will be critical. He'll need close monitoring for at least seventy-two hours."

Tristan finally looked at me, and I saw the assessment in his eyes. Judging whether I was sharp enough today, whether I would be an asset or a liability in his OR.

"You'll assist," he said. "Don't make me regret it."

The words hit harder than they should have. When had I ever made him regret anything? I showed up. I did my job. I asked for nothing except the scraps of attention he threw my way.

"I won't," I said quietly.

His phone buzzed then, and his entire demeanor changed. His face softened in a way it never did for me as he read the message. I didn't need to see the screen to know who it was from.

"That's all," he said, dismissing me without looking up. "I'll see you in the OR."

I left his office feeling smaller than ever. In the hallway, I nearly collided with Dr. Serena Vitale herself, immaculate in her white coat, her blonde hair pulled back in an elegant twist.

"Elena," she said, her voice dripping false sweetness. "How lovely to run into you."

My stepsister had perfected the art of looking right through me, as if I were just another piece of hospital equipment. We'd grown up in the same house after my father married her mother, but we'd never been family. Serena had made sure of that.

"Dr. Vitale," I replied, trying to step around her.

She moved to block my path, her blue eyes cold despite her smile. "I heard you're assisting Tristan today. How nice that he keeps you close." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Though we both know why, don't we? Someone has to warm his bed when I'm not available."

The words were designed to wound, and they succeeded. Before I could respond, she swept past me, leaving her expensive perfume lingering in the air.

I leaned against the wall, fighting back tears. I would not cry. Not here. Not where anyone could see.

My hand drifted unconsciously to my stomach, and I forced it back down. I couldn't afford that tell. Couldn't afford any sign of weakness.

The morning stretched ahead of me, endless and impossible. Surgery with Tristan. Pretending everything was normal. Hiding the truth that would destroy us both.

I pushed off the wall and headed for the surgical wing, my secrets heavy as stones in my chest.