CHAPTER 3
1317 Words
The waiting room was colder than usual.
Elena Hart sat alone, her hands tightly clasped in her lap. The soft murmur of classical music filtered through the speakers, but it couldn’t calm the storm inside her. Her nails dug into the palm of her hand as she glanced at the empty seat beside her. Adrian’s seat. He had promised to come. Again.
The door opened.
“Elena Hart?” the nurse called.
Elena rose, nodding politely as she followed the woman through pristine white halls. The nurse offered a kind smile, but Elena didn’t return it. Smiles were reserved for gala nights and camera flashes—not sterile corridors and blood test results.
Dr. Pennington, a soft-spoken woman in her early fifties, greeted her with a gentle nod. “Elena. Have a seat.”
Elena lowered herself into the chair across from her desk, the paper crinkling beneath her as she smoothed the hem of her coat.
“I know waiting is difficult,” the doctor began. “But the results are in.”
Elena braced herself.
“There’s no change in your hormone levels. In fact, they’ve dropped further since last month. And the scarring we talked about… it’s more pronounced.”
Elena swallowed the lump in her throat. “What does that mean?”
Dr. Pennington folded her hands. “It means the chances of conceiving naturally are almost nonexistent. Even with IVF, the success rate would be in the single digits.”
A long silence passed between them.
“I think it may be time,” the doctor said gently, “to consider stopping the treatments. It’s taking a toll on your physical and mental health. And—if I may be honest—on your emotional well-being too.”
Elena looked away. Her eyes burned. “Adrian won’t accept that.”
“You have to think about what you need, Elena. Not just your husband.”
Elena smiled bitterly. “That’s easy to say when your husband isn’t Adrian Blackwell.”
Later that evening, Elena sat alone at the long mahogany dining table. The candles flickered in their crystal holders, casting warm golden halos over the perfectly plated dinner—chilled sea bass, roasted beets, and saffron risotto.
Adrian’s seat sat empty across from her, his napkin untouched.
She checked her phone. No messages.
Her appetite had fled hours ago, but she lingered at the table like a woman in mourning. After another twenty minutes, she stood, dumped the untouched meal in the trash, and poured herself a glass of wine.
A soft ding alerted her to a new message in the group chat she had long muted—“Upper East Glamour Wives.”
Curious, she tapped it open.
Sabrina Caldwell: Oop. Look who showed up with a model on his arm. Can’t be Elena—unless she dyed her hair platinum and dropped 15 pounds overnight.
Attached was a photo.
Adrian, tall and polished in a black tuxedo, had his arm around a woman in a backless red dress, her blonde waves cascading over one shoulder, her ruby lips curled in a smug smile.
Vanessa Cruz.
The caption under the photo: Blackwell Industries Launches “NeoLux” at Manhattan Club—CEO Adrian Blackwell Arrives With Mystery Guest.
Elena’s blood froze.
She clicked the photo to zoom in. There was no mistaking it. The smirk. The pose. The familiarity.
And worse—Adrian looked relaxed. Almost happy.
She stared at the image for a full minute before setting the phone down like it might burn her.
She had been here waiting for him. Again.
And he hadn’t even had the courtesy to lie this time.
By morning, it was everywhere.
The tabloids. i********:. Twitter. LinkedIn, even.
“Blackwell’s New Flame?”
“Is Adrian Blackwell Back on the Market?”
“Who Is Vanessa Cruz?”
Elena’s PR manager called, panicked. “Elena, do you want us to put out a statement? We can say it’s a misunderstanding—”
“No,” she interrupted, her voice hoarse from a night without sleep. “Don’t say anything.”
“But they’re speculating that you’re separated—”
“Let them.”
She hung up and stared blankly at the mirror.
Her skin was sallow. Her eyes ringed with fatigue. She was falling apart from the inside out, and the world was throwing roses at the feet of the woman helping to destroy her.
The betrayal wasn’t just personal. It was public. Spectacular. Meant to humiliate.
Adrian hadn’t simply cheated—he had made a show of it.
And worse still, Elena realized something chilling: she didn’t even know who Vanessa Cruz was.
Not really.
When Adrian finally walked through the door that evening, Elena was waiting.
She stood by the window, arms crossed over her chest, the glow of the city casting fractured light on her face. Her voice was deceptively calm.
“Did you have fun last night?”
He barely blinked. “It was business.”
“Funny. Business seems to enjoy red dresses and photographers these days.”
He sighed and loosened his tie. “You’re overreacting.”
“Am I?” Her voice sharpened. “Because the entire city thinks you’ve moved on. That we’re over. And you’re doing nothing to correct them.”
“Maybe because they’re not wrong.”
The breath caught in her lungs.
“You’ve given up, Adrian. Just say it.”
He turned to her, eyes cold. “No, you gave up. You gave up the minute you let your emotions dictate everything. Every dinner is a pity party. Every conversation is a landmine. I can’t breathe around you anymore.”
Elena stepped back like he’d struck her.
“And Vanessa? Is she easier to breathe around?”
Adrian’s jaw tightened. “She understands boundaries. She doesn’t need me to fix her.”
“I never asked you to fix me. I asked you to stand with me.”
He scoffed. “I stood with you through everything. But it was never enough. You wanted a child. A perfect marriage. A fantasy. And when life didn’t hand it to you, you broke.”
She shook her head, tears brimming. “You’re rewriting the story, Adrian. I didn’t break. You did.”
He turned away.
“I saw the picture,” she whispered. “Of you and Vanessa. Smiling. Arm in arm. Like I was never real.”
“You want honesty?” he asked over his shoulder. “Vanessa listens. She doesn’t cling. And frankly, I need that right now.”
Silence fell like a guillotine.
And then… something inside Elena snapped.
She moved past him without another word, toward his home office. He followed, confused.
“What are you doing?”
She rifled through drawers, pulled open the safe behind the bookshelf, and reached for the envelope she had seen tucked there days ago.
A receipt. Folded. Creased. Hidden.
Her fingers trembled as she unfolded it.
The Bellrose Hotel. Presidential Suite. Booked under: Vanessa Cruz.
The date? Two nights ago.
The same night Adrian told her he had a board meeting.
She turned to him slowly, the paper held out like a dagger.
“Did your ‘business dinner’ require a king-sized bed and rose petals too?”
Adrian didn’t answer.
He didn’t have to.
Elena stared at him—really stared. And something shifted in her chest. A breaking. A release.
“I gave you everything,” she whispered. “My loyalty. My body. My hope. And you gave it all away… for a stranger in a red dress.”
His jaw clenched, but he said nothing.
For once, Elena didn’t cry.
She simply dropped the receipt at his feet.
And walked away.
As Elena closes the bedroom door behind her, she clutches her stomach—then gasps, swaying on her feet. A sharp, sudden pain rips through her abdomen.
- Writer
