After His Mistress Lied About Carrying My Husband’s Baby

The law offices of Stewart & Brennan occupied the fourteenth floor of a building in Midtown that had been nice in 1987. Karson sat at his desk and stared at his calendar. Three client meetings canceled this week. Two more rescheduled indefinitely. The Hutchinson account — his biggest — had sent a polite email about "exploring other options."

He refreshed his inbox. Nothing.

The door opened without a knock. Delaney swept in wearing a cream sheath dress and her favorite Cartier bracelet. The one he'd bought her after the wedding. Back when he still thought the child was his.

"We need to talk," she said.

Karson closed his laptop. "I'm working."

"You're staring at an empty screen." She perched on the edge of his desk. "The Griffin Gala is in three weeks."

"So?"

"So we're going."

He looked up at her. "We weren't invited."

"I know that." Her smile was sharp. "That's why you're going to call Richard Pemberton. His wife is on the foundation board. You did his merger last year. He owes you."

"Delaney—"

"Do you know who hosts that gala?" She leaned forward. "Leland Griffin. Do you know who'll be there? Everyone. Everyone who matters. We need to be seen, Karson. We need people to remember we exist."

He rubbed his face. "Fine. I'll call Richard."

"Today."

"Today."

She smiled and kissed his cheek. Her perfume smelled expensive. Everything about her smelled expensive now. He wondered, not for the first time, what the bill for all of it actually was.

She left. The door clicked shut.

Karson sat in the silence and thought about Elyse's face at the clinic. The way she'd looked at him. Not angry. Not hurt.

Nothing.

Like he was a stranger she'd passed on the street.

---

Marcus Doyle was the kind of man who made his living being forgettable. Average height. Neat suit. The sort of face you wouldn't pick out of a lineup. That was the point.

He sat across from Leland in the study at the penthouse, a leather folder open on the table between them.

"Stewart's firm is circling the drain," Marcus said. "Three major clients dropped him in the last four months. Bar association's had two complaints filed — one for missed deadlines, one for conduct. Nothing formal yet, but it's coming."

Leland's face didn't change. "Finances?"

"Leveraged to the gills. The brownstone has a second mortgage. Credit cards near maxed. He's holding on, but barely."

"And her?"

"Delaney Weaver-Stewart." Marcus flipped a page. "No income of her own. She passed the bar two years ago but never practiced. Lives off him. Spends like she's still climbing."

Leland closed the folder. "They'll be at the gala."

Marcus didn't ask how he knew. "You want them removed?"

"No." Leland's voice was quiet. "I want them watched. Close. If either of them approaches my wife, I want to know before it happens. If they so much as look at her wrong, I want them escorted out. Quietly. No scene."

"Understood."

"And Marcus?"

"Sir?"

"Make sure Elyse doesn't see you doing it. She needs to feel safe. Not surveilled."

Marcus nodded once. "Consider it done."

---

I couldn't sleep.

The penthouse was silent except for the hum of the city fifteen floors below. Leland's breathing was slow and even beside me. I slipped out of bed, pulled on a robe, and padded down the hall.

The nursery door was open.

I stepped inside and turned on the small lamp in the corner. Soft light spilled across ivory walls. The crib Leland had spent three hours assembling last week stood near the window. A mobile hung above it — tiny wooden stars that turned slowly in the air from the heating vent.

On the dresser, in a silver frame, was the photograph.

Angelo Rivera in his FDNY dress uniform. Thirty years old, maybe. Dark hair. Bright eyes. The smile that made strangers trust him on sight.

I picked up the frame. Held it in both hands.

"I saw him, Dad," I whispered. "At the clinic. He asked if I was okay. Like he had the right."

The photograph said nothing. It never did.

"I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to ask him how he sleeps at night. How he looks at himself in the mirror." My voice cracked. "But I just walked away. I didn't say anything. I don't know if that makes me strong or a coward."

I sank into the rocking chair by the window. The city lights blurred.

"You saved his life," I said. "You gave him everything. And he swore — he swore on your grave, Dad — that he'd protect me. And then he—"

I couldn't finish.

The baby kicked. Once. Twice. A little flutter against my ribs.

I put my hand on my belly. Breathed.

"I'm trying to be brave like you," I whispered to the photograph. "I'm trying. But I don't know how to do this without you."

The stars on the mobile turned slowly.

Somewhere in the city, Karson Stewart was probably asleep. Probably dreaming. Probably fine.

And my father was still gone.

I sat in the nursery until the sky started to lighten. Until Leland's footsteps sounded in the hall. Until his hand found my shoulder, warm and steady.

"Come back to bed," he said softly.

I nodded. Put the photograph back on the dresser.

But I didn't let go of what I'd decided in the dark.

I was done being quiet.

Three weeks. That's all I had to wait.

Three weeks, and Karson Stewart would finally understand exactly what he'd destroyed.