The Secret Savior He Threw Away

The wet warmth between her legs pulled Diana from the heavy fog of sleep. For a blissful second, she thought it was just sweat, a fever breaking after a night of chills. But as her mind focused, the metallic, copper scent hit her nose.

Her eyes snapped open.

She threw back the heavy duvet. A dark, stark stain spread across the pale Egyptian cotton sheets, centered right beneath her. It was a horrifying bloom of red against the pristine white.

"No," she breathed, the word catching in her dry throat.

She tried to sit up, but a blinding cramp ripped through her lower abdomen. It felt like a giant, invisible hand was twisting her insides, squeezing until she couldn't breathe. She gasped, doubling over, her fingers clutching the soaked sheets. The pain was a living thing, radiating from her core down to her trembling legs.

She looked at the blood again. It was too much. This wasn't just spotting. This was her body emptying out.

The tablet on the nightstand lit up with a push notification, casting a cold blue glow across the dark room. Diana reached for it with a shaking hand, desperate for a distraction, desperate for anything to anchor her to reality.

The screen showed a breaking news alert from the Wall Street Journal. The headline read: Alston CEO and Art Sensation Carla Booth Debut New Partnership at SoHo Gallery.

Below the headline was a photo. Curtis Alston, her husband, stood next to Carla Booth. He was in a tailored tuxedo, his dark hair perfectly styled. But it wasn't his outfit that made Diana's stomach heave. It was his eyes. He was looking down at Carla, who was laughing up at him, and the expression on his face was one Diana had never seen directed at her in three years of marriage. It was warmth. It was absolute adoration.

A fresh wave of cramps hit her, and she dropped the tablet onto the mattress. She curled into a ball, pressing her forehead to her knees.

She remembered the stairs. Just a few hours ago, she had been walking down the marble staircase of this very penthouse, trying to answer the door for a delivery. Her foot had slipped on the polished edge. She remembered the horrible, weightless sensation of falling, the sickening crack of her tailbone against the steps, and then the immediate, gushing warmth.

She had lain at the bottom of the stairs, gasping, watching the blood pool beneath her nightgown. She had scrambled for her phone, her fingers slick with her own blood, and dialed Curtis.

He had answered on the third ring. Background noise-clinking glasses, smooth jazz, Carla's distinctive laugh-had flooded the line.

"Curtis," she had sobbed, "I fell. I'm bleeding. Please, I need an ambulance."

His voice had been ice. "Diana, I'm in the middle of a crucial transatlantic meeting. Stop being dramatic and call the house doctor. I don't have time for your tantrums right now."

The line went dead.

And now, she was lying in their bed, losing their baby, while he was looking at another woman like she was the center of the universe.

The bedroom door swung open, hitting the wall with a loud bang. Curtis strode in, still wearing the custom black suit from the gallery opening. The smell of expensive bourbon and Carla's signature gardenia perfume trailed in with him.

He didn't look at the bed. He didn't look at her face. He walked straight to the dresser, unfastening his cufflinks with sharp, angry movements.

"Curtis," Diana whispered. Her voice sounded like sandpaper against glass.

He finally turned. His gaze dropped to the rumpled sheets, to the dark stain, and then to her pale, sweaty face. His jaw tightened, but there was no panic in his eyes. There was only a cold, hard disgust.

"Get up," he said, his voice flat. "You have thirty minutes to shower and change."

Diana stared at him, the cramps making it hard to form thoughts. "What?"

"The Hampton estate dinner is tonight. Montgomery is expecting us, and the key players for the Meridian acquisition will be there. You need to be on my arm."

"Curtis, I'm bleeding," she said, a tear slipping down her cheek. "I lost the baby. I'm losing-"

"Cut the act, Diana," he snapped, cutting her off. He took a step closer, his shadow falling over her. "What, did you see the news about Carla and decide this was the perfect time for a little drama? This is exactly the kind of cheap stunt I expect from you."

"It's not an act," she choked out, the pain stealing her breath. "I fell down the stairs. I called you. I'm miscarrying."

He let out a harsh, humorless laugh. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, velvet box. He tossed it onto the bed. It landed right next to her hand, the dark blue velvet a stark contrast to the blood.

"Put this on," he ordered. "And whatever mess you've made, clean it up. You will walk into that dinner as Mrs. Alston, and you will smile. Do not embarrass this family."

"Curtis, please," she begged, reaching out a trembling hand toward him. "Just take me to the hospital. Please."

He ignored her outstretched hand. "If you refuse to show up tonight, I will make a phone call. By tomorrow morning, Wilcox Group's credit lines will be frozen, and your father will lose his appeal. Do you understand me?"

The threat hit her like a bucket of ice water. The coldness spread from her chest to her limbs, momentarily numbing the physical pain. He was using her incarcerated father, the company her brother was fighting to save, as a leash.

She had no choice. She never had a choice with him.

Diana slowly pulled her hand back. She looked at his perfectly polished shoes, the cold marble floor, and the velvet box. She didn't have the strength to fight him. She didn't have the strength to scream.

"Thirty minutes, Diana," he repeated, turning his back to her. "Don't make me come up here again."

He walked out, leaving the door wide open.

Diana forced herself to sit up. Every movement sent a fresh wave of agony through her abdomen. She felt lightheaded, the edges of her vision turning gray. She slid off the bed, her bare feet hitting the floor with a soft thud. A fresh rush of warmth trickled down her leg, but she ignored it.

She stumbled into the massive walk-in closet, her hand braced against the wall for support. Each step was a monumental effort, her body screaming in protest. It was a shrine to her role as his wife-rows of designer dresses, shelves of expensive shoes, all chosen to project an image of perfection. She bypassed the pastels and the whites. She reached for a heavy, floor-length gown in deep crimson. It would hide any accidents. It would match the blood.

She stripped off her ruined nightgown and stepped into the dress. The fabric felt like sandpaper against her hypersensitive skin. Her fingers fumbled with the zipper, cold sweat beading on her forehead as she fought against a wave of dizziness. She finally managed to pull it up, the tight bodice pressing against her swollen, aching belly. She looked in the mirror. Her face was a ghostly white, her lips pale, her eyes hollow.

She picked up the velvet box from the bed and opened it. A diamond necklace sat inside, cold and glittering. She clasped it around her neck. The ice of the stones against her collarbone made her shiver. It felt like a collar.

Exactly thirty minutes later, she walked out of the bedroom. She moved like a zombie, each step requiring a monumental effort.

Curtis was standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room, scrolling through his phone. He looked up when he heard her heels on the hardwood. He gave her a slow, assessing once-over. His expression didn't soften. He just gave a curt nod.

"Let's go," he said.

He didn't offer his arm. He didn't wait for her. He just walked toward the private elevator.

Diana followed him, her hand trailing along the wall for support. They stepped into the elevator. The doors slid shut, enclosing them in the small, mirrored space. As the car began its rapid descent, a wave of dizziness crashed over Diana. The pressure in her head built until it felt like her skull would split open. Her knees buckled.

She reached out blindly, her hand grabbing the metal handrail, but her fingers slipped. She stumbled sideways, her shoulder hitting the mirrored wall with a dull thud.

She looked at Curtis, hoping for a hand, a look of concern, anything.

He stood perfectly still in the center of the elevator, his hands in his pockets. He watched her struggle to regain her footing, his eyes as cold and flat as the steel doors in front of them. He didn't move a muscle to help her. He just watched her fall.