I Faked My Suicide to Save Our Baby From Him

I stood alone at the bar, the crystal flute of champagne untouched between my fingers. The Maxwell Foundation charity gala swirled around me in a blur of designer gowns and polite laughter, but I might as well have been invisible.

Across the grand ballroom, Lucas—my husband, my childhood sweetheart—was bent attentively toward Mia Rowan. His fingers gently guided a canapé to her parted lips, his smile warmer than any he'd directed at me in months.

"Such a delicate little thing, isn't she?" The voice beside me belonged to Eleanor Wilcox, wife of one of the hospital board members. "Dr. Maxwell is so dedicated to his patients."

Her words were kind, but her eyes held something else—pity, perhaps. Or was it morbid fascination? I'd become a spectacle: Summer Maxwell, the neglected wife.

"Yes, he's very dedicated," I managed, my voice steady despite the knot tightening in my throat.

The orchestra began a waltz, and I watched as Lucas guided Mia to the center of the floor. His hand rested protectively at the small of her back, their bodies moving in perfect synchrony. Mia's face was tilted up to his, her expression one of complete adoration. She stumbled slightly—deliberately, I was certain—and Lucas caught her, drawing her closer.

"Poor dear," murmured another woman nearby, not bothering to lower her voice. "Can you imagine? Your husband parading his obsession right in front of you?"

"She should leave him," her companion whispered back. "But I hear the Bennetts can't afford to lose the Maxwell connection. The merger—"

I moved away before I could hear more, my cheeks burning. The whispers followed me like shadows as I made my way toward the terrace doors, desperate for air that didn't feel thick with judgment and speculation.

A server appeared at my elbow. "Mrs. Maxwell? Your husband asked me to inform you that he and Miss Rowan will be departing early. He said not to wait up."

I nodded mechanically, watching as Lucas guided Mia toward the exit, his hand never leaving her waist. She glanced back once, and I caught it—the briefest flash of triumph in her eyes before she resumed her mask of fragile innocence.

The ride home to our penthouse was silent, the city lights blurring through the windows of the taxi. I arrived to an empty apartment, the spaces echoing with absence. It was past midnight when I heard the door, followed by hushed voices and Mia's soft, theatrical giggle.

I found them in the kitchen, Lucas preparing tea while Mia perched on a barstool, wrapped in his suit jacket. She looked small and vulnerable, but her eyes met mine with cold calculation.

"Lucas," I said quietly. "Could we talk? Privately?"

His shoulders stiffened. "Mia isn't feeling well. Whatever it is can wait."

"It's been waiting for months," I persisted, my voice barely above a whisper. "Please. Just five minutes."

With visible reluctance, he followed me to our bedroom—a room he rarely entered anymore.

"What is it, Summer?" His tone was clipped, impatient.