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Elodie sat on the edge of the examination table, Her fingers were white where they gripped the strap of her handbag, the leather biting into her palm.

The doctor did not look at her. He was scrolling through data on his iPad, his face illuminated by the artificial blue light.

"The uterine lining is severely damaged, Mrs. Schneider," he said. His voice was flat, professional, devoid of any warmth. "As we discussed previously, the stress levels are likely a contributing factor to the rejection."

Elodie opened her mouth, but her throat felt like it had been packed with dry cotton. She wanted to ask why. She wanted to ask if there was anything she could have done differently in the last forty-eight hours.

But the doctor was already standing up. He tapped the screen of his device and set it on the counter.

"Take a few weeks to rest. My nurse will see you out."

He didn't wait for a response. He walked out the door, already mentally preparing for the next VIP patient in the next room, leaving Elodie alone with the hum of the air conditioner and the hollow ache in her abdomen.

She walked out to the curb where the black Maybach was waiting. The driver, a man who had worked for the Schneider family for ten years, did not look in the rearview mirror as she slid into the back seat. He simply pressed a button, and the privacy divider slid up with a soft hiss, sealing her in a soundproof glass box.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

Elodie pulled her phone from her purse. She stared at the screen. Keyon.

She hesitated, her thumb hovering over the call button. She needed to hear a voice. Even if it was impatient. Even if it was cold. She just needed to tell someone that there was no baby, that there never would be a baby.

She pressed call.

It rang once.

Click.

The screen went black, then lit up immediately with an automated text message.

In a meeting.

Elodie let the phone drop into her lap. She stared out the tinted window as the city blurred by, the grey steel of the skyscrapers matching the numbness spreading through her chest.

When she arrived at the Schneider estate, the house loomed over the driveway like a mausoleum. It was a massive structure of stone and glass, designed to impress, not to comfort.

She walked inside. The foyer was cold. The air conditioning was always set to sixty-eight degrees because Keyon preferred it crisp.

Mrs. Lee, the head housekeeper, bustled past the hallway carrying a stack of linens.

She stopped when she saw Elodie, but she didn't ask about the appointment. She didn't ask why Elodie looked like a ghost.

"Mrs. Schneider," Mrs. Lee said, her tone clipped. "You didn't approve the dinner menu for tomorrow. The chef is waiting."

"I'm sorry," Elodie whispered.

Mrs. Lee sighed, a short, sharp sound of annoyance, and continued down the hall.

Elodie walked into the main living room. She sat on the edge of the sofa, her knees pressed together. On the marble coffee table, Keyon's spare iPad sat next to a crystal coaster.

It lit up.

The vibration against the stone table made a low buzzing sound.

Elodie looked at it. A notification banner stretched across the lock screen.

iMessage from Katina B.

Elodie felt a physical jolt in her stomach, sharper than the cramps she had been fighting all morning.

She reached out. Her hand trembled. She swiped the screen. The passcode was 081588. Keyon's birthday. August 15th.

It unlocked.

The message opened. It wasn't just text. It was a PDF attachment titled Welcome Home, My Muse - Gala Planning.

Elodie tapped it. The document loaded. It was a detailed itinerary for a party tonight. A celebration for Katina Bartlett's return to New York. The venue was a private club in Tribeca.

The date was today.

Today was her third wedding anniversary.

She scrolled up.