Abandoned Wife: Now Untouchable

Chapter 1 The Birthday Party from Hell

She Brought Down Her Rich Ex

1

1

Anabella Clayton's POV:

My knuckles were white against the steering wheel. Behind me, in her car seat, my daughter Elinor Clayton sat in a heavy, uncharacteristic silence. She was wearing her brand-new pink lace tutu, her golden curls shimmering softly, but those emerald eyes—so much like my own—looked vacant and dim.

We had just finished ballet and were racing toward Chroma Feast. It was her sixth birthday, a milestone she shared with her twin brother, Dexter Clayton.

"Mommy..." Elinor's voice was a fragile thread.

"What's wrong, baby? We're only ten minutes away. Daddy and Dexter are waiting for us." I shot an anxious glance at the dashboard clock. We were already late, and the knot in my stomach was tightening.

"I don't feel good... My tummy hurts."

Panic flared. Instinctively, I whipped my head around to check on her. In that split second, a blinding flash of reflected sunlight slammed into my vision.

A black pickup truck was barreling straight toward us in my lane.

"Jesus!" I shrieked, wrenching the steering wheel to the right.

The tires let out a bone-chilling screech as they fought for grip. The car lurched violently, tilting on its axis. With a sickening thud, we lost control, skidding off the asphalt and nose-diving into a rain-slicked mud ditch.

The pickup roared past, missing us by a hair's breadth. The driver slowed just enough to lean out the window and hurl a string of venomous curses at me before speeding off.

I sat there gasping, my heart hammering against my ribs so hard it felt like it might burst through my throat.

"Elinor! Baby! Are you hurt?" I fumbled frantically with my seatbelt, threw the door open, and scrambled to the back.

Elinor was deathly pale, her breath coming in shallow hitches. Her eyes were wide, glazed with terror. Her little mouth twitched, but no sound came out.

"Elinor! Talk to me! Does anything hurt?" My hands trembled as I checked her limbs. There was no blood, but as I watched her chest heave, a cold dread settled over me. Could it be some internal injuries? I couldn't risk it. She needed a pediatric ER. Now.

I pulled out my phone to dial 911, but my husband's name, Bowden Clayton, flashed across the screen first.

"Anabella, where are you? The guests are already here." Bowden's voice crackled through, stiff and cold. It was the same tone he used when barking orders at the office.

"Bowden, we almost had a massive accident. A truck came out of nowhere... we're off the road. I don't know if Elinor is okay. She looks terrible; I'm taking her to the hospital..." I spoke in a rush, gently pressing on Elinor's abdomen, searching her face for a wince of pain.

"Is she bleeding? Is anything broken?"

I checked again, exhaling a shaky breath. "It doesn't look like it, but I..."

"Then stop overreacting and get here. Dexter is getting restless," he snapped, his impatience bleeding through the line. "Don't keep the guests waiting over a scare."

"Mommy! Bring Elinor now! The chocolate on the cake is melting!" Dexter's voice drifted over the line, loud and demanding.

The call went dead. I stared at the phone, a white-hot urge to smash it against the muddy ground surging through me.

Dexter, the spitting image of his father, had been the golden child since birth, doted on by Bowden and his mother, Valeria Clayton. He was used to being the sun that everyone else orbited.

The more I tried to set boundaries, the more he pushed back against me. And Bowden? Bowden undermined me at every turn. Once, I'd banned ice cream after dinner; ten minutes later, Bowden was sneaking him out for a double scoop.

The party, the guests, the "happy family image", the atmosphere... it all mattered more to Bowden than the fact that I had almost died minutes ago. Elinor was clearly in shock, yet she was an afterthought.

"Mommy..." Elinor reached out, her small hand tugging at my sleeve.

"Sweetie, can you speak? Thank God. Does it hurt anywhere?"

"I feel better now, really. I'm not hurt. Let's go... I don't want Dexter to be mad. He's been waiting all day."

Looking at her pale, pinched face, a lump formed in my throat. They were both six, yet she had already learned to suppress her own needs to keep the "peace" in this family.

"Okay. But listen to me, Elinor, the second you feel dizzy or sick, you tell me." I kissed her forehead, taking a long, jagged breath.

I tried to restart the car. The engine let out a frustrated roar, but the wheels just spun uselessly in the muck. "Dammit!" I slammed my palm against the wheel.

I reached for my phone, debating whether to beg Bowden to come get us. We were barely half a mile from Chroma Feast.

"Mommy, let's just walk." Elinor unbuckled her own seatbelt. "I can do it."

My heart swelled with a painful warmth. My Elinor was an absolute angel.

We had been walking for ten minutes when the sky decided to settle the score. The clouds opened up in a sudden, violent downpour.

I stripped off my blazer, draping it over Elinor's head like a makeshift tent, and hoisted her into my arms. The icy rain soaked through my silk blouse in seconds, chilling me to the bone. Clutching her tightly, I slogged through deepening puddles until we finally stumbled, drenched and filthy, into the porte-cochère of Chroma Feast.

The host gave me a look of pure pity, handing me a towel before leading us to the private banquet room.

As I tried to dry Elinor off, Dexter's voice drifted through the gap in the door.

"Don't wait for them. I have Daddy; that's enough. They're always so slow anyway," Dexter said, his tone flippant and uncaring.

My hand froze. Elinor's eyes shimmered with a hurt that sliced through me.

"Analia, Analia! Hurry up! I want to cut the cake!"

I froze. 'Analia? Analia Sanchez? Why the hell is she here?'

She was Bowden's childhood friend, hired as his secretary three years ago. Bowden always claimed she "understood" him better than anyone. She accompanied him to galas, went to bars with his friends, and more than once, she had been the one to drop him off at home late at night, disheveled and smelling of gin. We had fought countless times over her, yet she remained his "indispensable" assistant.

And today, without a word to me, Bowden had invited her to our children's private party.

Analia's tinkling laugh echoed from inside. "Whatever you say, birthday boy! So, are you happy I'm here?"

"Of course! I love you," Dexter shouted. "You don't boss me around as Mommy does."

I stood there paralyzed. Rain dripped from my hair into my eyes, stinging like salt. I couldn't believe my son, the boy I nearly died giving birth to, would say something like that. Six years of sleepless nights, breastfeeding on demand, endless storybooks, scraped knees, fevers. I'd poured everything into being present, into being good.

And somehow, somewhere along the line, Dexter had grown far closer to his indulgent father—and now, apparently, to Analia—than to me.

A shudder wracked my frame.

"Well, you're the boss today." Bowden's voice rang out, light and indulgent. "Why don't we let Analia stand in for your mom and help you cut the cake?"

The room erupted in cheers and applause. Then came the sharp pop of party poppers, followed by a raucous rendition of "Happy Birthday".

They didn't wait for us.

Nobody cared if Elinor and I were safe. Nobody asked where the other birthday child was. Her own father acted as if she didn't exist. Even worse, he was encouraging our son to cling to another woman, letting her usurp my place in front of all our guests.

A terrifying thought took root: behind that door, a perfect new family already formed. And it didn't include me or Elinor.

Elinor's soft sob snapped me back to the present. I pulled her close, whispering fiercely, "Happy birthday, Elinor. I will always be here for you."

Anger finally burned through the cold. Elinor was the star of today, too! She was supposed to be the princess in her beautiful dress.

I reached out to shove the door open, but my legs, trembling from the cold and the shock, finally gave out. I didn't walk in; I crashed against the door.

And so, amidst the gasps of the crowd, I sprawled onto the confetti-strewn floor, soaked, covered in mud, and utterly humiliated.

The music died instantly.