After My Husband Forced Me to Lose Our Baby

The gown Clayton chose was the color of champagne—expensive, shimmering, designed to catch light. I stood in front of the penthouse mirror, watching my reflection blur at the edges. The silk clung to my ribs, my collarbones, all the places where I'd grown too thin over six years of living in his gilded cage.

My fingers traced the scars along my left cheek, the ones that twisted from temple to jaw. The makeup artist he'd hired had done her best, but under the bathroom's harsh lighting, the ridges still showed through the foundation like fault lines in porcelain.

"You're not riding with me."

Clayton's voice cut through the silence. He stood in the doorway, adjusting his cufflinks—platinum, monogrammed. His tuxedo fit like it had been painted on, every line sharp enough to draw blood. When he looked at me, his gaze skipped over my face entirely, landing somewhere near my shoulder.

"The car will take you to the kitchen entrance," he continued. "Staff will show you to the gallery. You can watch from there."

The words landed like stones in my chest. "Clayton, I thought—"

"You thought what?" His jaw tightened. "That I'd parade you in front of every camera in New York? That I'd let them photograph those scars and plaster them across every tabloid by morning?"

I swallowed. The taste of copper filled my mouth—I'd bitten my cheek without realizing. "I just wanted to be with you."

"You are with me." He crossed the room, his shoes clicking against the marble. "You're exactly where I put you. Where you belong."

He left without kissing me goodbye. The door to the penthouse clicked shut with the finality of a vault sealing.

The kitchen entrance smelled like grease and garlic. Staff in white coats rushed past me, carrying trays of hors d'oeuvres that cost more than most people's rent. No one met my eyes. A young woman with a clipboard gestured toward a service elevator, her expression carefully blank.

The viewing gallery was a narrow balcony tucked into the museum's upper level, hidden behind ornamental screens. Below, the Met Gala unfolded like a fever dream—celebrities dripping in diamonds, photographers shouting, flashbulbs turning the night into artificial day.

I pressed against the railing, my knuckles white.

Then I saw him.

Clayton emerged from a black town car, and the crowd erupted. He smiled—that practiced, devastating smile that had pulled me from the wreckage six years ago, the one that made me believe I'd been saved rather than collected. He buttoned his jacket with one hand, waving with the other.

Sabrina Ward stepped out behind him.

She wore crimson. The dress was a masterpiece, cut to showcase her flawless skin, her perfect face. Her dark hair cascaded over one shoulder in waves that probably required three stylists. When she took Clayton's arm, cameras exploded in a frenzy of light.

They looked like they'd been carved from the same block of marble—beautiful, untouchable, whole.

I watched Clayton lean down to whisper something in