Ninety Days To Break Your Heart

2:15 A.M.

The red digits on the digital clock were the only light in the master bedroom, burning like accusing eyes in the darkness.

The baby monitor crackled. A sharp, rhythmic cry pierced the silence of the penthouse. It was Leo.

Mia Wallace jolted awake. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a violent bird trapped in a cage. Her hand instinctively swept across the expanse of the California King bed beside her.

Silk. Cold, undisturbed silk.

The disappointment was a physical blow, a heavy stone dropping into her stomach. She swallowed the bitter taste of it, pushing back the duvet. Her bare feet sank into the plush carpet as she navigated the shadows toward the nursery.

Inside, the warm yellow glow of the nightlight cast long shadows against the hand-painted mural of a forest. Mia glanced anxiously at the second crib. Thankfully, Maya was still sound asleep, her tiny chest rising and falling in a peaceful rhythm, undisturbed by her brother's distress.

Mia lifted Leo from the crib. He was hot, his face scrunching up in distress. She rocked him, humming a low, shapeless tune until his cries subsided into wet, hiccuping breaths.

Then she heard it.

The ding of the private elevator down the hall.

Mia went rigid. Her arms tightened around the baby, a protective instinct she couldn't control.

Heavy footsteps approached. They were uneven, lacking their usual confident cadence. The master bedroom door creaked open.

Mia stood in the doorway of the nursery, shielded by the semi-darkness, watching.

William Sterling stood silhouetted against the hallway light. He loosened his tie with a jerky, frustrated motion, pulling it free and tossing it onto the armchair. He looked wrecked. His hair was disheveled, his eyes bloodshot.

But it was the smell that hit her first.

It drifted across the room, an invisible, choking fog emanating from his clothes before he had even stepped fully inside. The sharp, peat-smoke scent of expensive Scotch. And beneath it, clinging to his bespoke suit jacket like a second skin, was the cloying, powdery sweetness of Midnight Rose.

Lucinda.

Mia's stomach twisted violently. She felt bile rise in her throat.

William turned, his gaze snagging on her figure in the nursery doorway. There was no warmth in his eyes. No guilt. Only a flicker of annoyance, as if her presence was a smudge on a perfectly polished glass.

"Let the nanny handle it if you're tired," he said. His voice was rough, like gravel grinding together.

"Mrs. Higgins has the flu, and the agency couldn't send a replacement until morning," Mia whispered, though she didn't know why she was whispering. Maybe she didn't want to wake the reality of their marriage. "I didn't want a stranger handling them in the middle of the night anyway."

William let out a short, derisive huff. He turned his back to her, heading for the bathroom.

"The perfect mother performance," he muttered, loud enough for her to hear. "Don't wait up for applause."

The bathroom door clicked shut.