Emily Carter lay propped against stiff white pillows, her abdomen aching with every shallow breath, three bassinets lined up like tiny promises beside her bed. The triplets—Ava, Noah, and Lily—were finally asleep, their faces soft and swollen with new life. Emily’s hair was unwashed, her skin dull from labor and sleeplessness, but she kept staring at them like she could memorize every eyelash and every sigh.
The door opened without a knock.
Her husband, Nathaniel “Nate” Whitmore, strolled in wearing a charcoal suit that still held the crisp scent of money. And beside him—clicking on designer heels like she owned the corridor—was Madison Vale. A Birkin bag hung from her arm, perfectly placed, like a weapon displayed in velvet.
Emily’s throat tightened. “Nate… why is she here?”
Madison’s smile was bright and cold. “To support him,” she said, glancing at the triplets as if they were objects delivered to the wrong address. “And to see what all the fuss was about.”
Nate didn’t look at the babies. He looked at Emily like she was a mistake he was ready to erase. “You’re… ruined,” he said, voice low enough to feel intimate and cruel. “You’re too ugly now. Sign the divorce.”
Emily’s hands shook. “I just gave birth to your children.”
He scoffed. “Children I’ll provide for. In a life you won’t be part of.”
