We left the gala right after that. Marcus apologized that I, his wife, felt faint. The penthouse is silent when Marcus speaks.
He’s standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, a silhouette against the city lights, a glass of whiskey in his hand. I’m still in my gown from the gala, the emerald silk feeling like a costume I can’t peel off. My skin still hums from the bathroom, from Adrian’s fingers, from the lie I told my husband just an hour ago.
“We should try for a child,” he says. His voice is flat. An executive decision.
The words don’t land. They float in the sterile air between us. I stare at his back. Try for a child. A baby. His heir. Another possession, another chain. My body goes cold. The memory of Adrian’s heat against me is so vivid it feels like a brand.
“Marcus,” I say. My v
