After My Husband Tried to Kill Me for Her

The call comes at two in the morning.

I jolt awake in my closet-sized room, fumbling for my phone in the darkness. The screen's glow illuminates the water-stained ceiling, the narrow walls that seem to compress tighter each night.

"Ms. Evans?" The voice is clipped, professional. "This is Mercy General Hospital. Your mother, Eleanor Evans, was admitted an hour ago. You're listed as her emergency contact."

The floor drops away beneath me.

"What happened? Is she—"

"She's stable, but her condition is serious. The doctor needs to discuss treatment options with you immediately."

I'm dressed and down the stairs before my brain catches up to my body. My hands shake so violently I can barely grip my car keys. Then I remember—I don't have car keys anymore. Isaac took them last week, said I didn't need to go anywhere that Angelique couldn't drive me.

The hospital is forty minutes away by taxi. I have twelve dollars in my purse.

I stand in the foyer, the grandfather clock ticking like a countdown, and stare at the stairs leading up to Isaac's bedroom. Our bedroom. The one I'm no longer allowed to enter.

Pride is a luxury I can no longer afford.

I climb the stairs. Each step feels like swallowing glass. I raise my hand to knock, then pause. Through the door, I hear Angelique's laugh, low and intimate. The sound of sheets rustling.

I knock anyway.

Silence. Then footsteps.

Isaac opens the door wearing only pajama bottoms, his hair mussed. Behind him, I catch a glimpse of Angelique in the bed—my bed—the silk sheets pooled around her waist.

"What is it, Ivy?" His voice carries the edge of irritation, like I'm a servant interrupting at an inconvenient hour.

"It's my mother. She's in the hospital. I need—" My throat closes around the words. "I need money. For her treatment."

His expression doesn't change. "How much?"

"I don't know yet. The doctor needs to—"

"Then come back when you have actual numbers." He starts to close the door.

I wedge my foot in the gap. "Isaac, please. She could be dying."

"Ivy." Angelique's voice drifts from the bed, syrup-sweet. "Come in, darling. Let's discuss this properly."

Every instinct screams at me to run. But I think of my mother, alone in a hospital bed, and I step inside.

Angelique sits up, making no effort to cover herself. The diamond pendant at her throat—the one Isaac gave me for our first anniversary—catches the lamplight. She pats the bed beside her like she's summoning a dog.

"Your mother is ill. How dreadful." Her eyes glitter with something that isn't sympathy. "And you need money. Well, money doesn't grow on trees, does it?"

"I'll pay it back," I say. "Every cent. I just need—"

"Oh, I'm sure we can work something out." She examines her nails. "There's a gala tomorrow night. Very important people. The Robinsons are hosting, naturally. We could use extra help with the service."

The room goes very still.

"You want me to work as a servant? At my own husband's event?"

"Well, you've been practicing, haven't you?" Her smile is a blade. "You've become quite good at fetching and carrying. Think of it as an audition. Perform well, and we'll discuss your mother's medical bills."

I turn to Isaac. He's staring out the window, his jaw tight, his hands shoved in his pockets.

"Isaac." My voice breaks on his name. "Please. Don't make me do this."

He doesn't look at me. "It's just one night, Ivy. Is your pride really worth more than your mother's life?"

The words hit like a physical blow.

Angelique's smile widens. "Wonderful. That's settled then. Wear something appropriate. Black, I think. And Ivy?" She waits until I meet her eyes. "Do try not to break anything this time."

I flee before they can see me shatter.

The gala is held in the Robinson estate's grand ballroom, all crystal chandeliers and marble columns. I stand in the service hallway wearing a black uniform Angelique provided—too tight across the chest, too short in the skirt. My reflection in the polished silver tray I'm holding shows a stranger with hollow eyes and sharp cheekbones.

Through the doorway, I watch the city's elite swirl in their designer gowns and tailored tuxedos. I recognize faces from our wedding, from dinner parties I once hosted. People who called me friend.

Angelique glides through the crowd on Isaac's arm, radiant in crimson silk. She catches my eye and crooks one finger.

I walk out into the ballroom carrying champagne flutes. Conversations falter. Heads turn. Recognition dawns on face after face, followed by shock, pity, barely concealed glee.

"Ivy Evans?" Margaret Chen's voice carries across the room. "Is that really you?"

Angelique's laugh rings out like breaking glass. "Oh, didn't you hear? Ivy's been helping out with family matters. She's been absolutely indispensable." She plucks a glass from my tray, her fingers deliberately brushing mine. "Haven't you, dear?"

The room watches. Waiting. Hungry for my humiliation.

I force my spine straight. "Yes, ma'am."

Angelique's smile could cut diamonds. She raises her voice, addressing the crowd. "In fact, I have wonderful news to share. We've arranged a lovely match for Ivy. Our chauffeur, Richard, has expressed interest, and we think they'll suit each other perfectly."

The words don't make sense at first. Then they do, and the room tilts.

"You're marrying me off? To the chauffeur?"

"Well, you'll need somewhere to go after the divorce." Angelique sips her champagne, her eyes glittering with triumph. "Richard is very eager. He's been quite taken with you."

I know Richard. I've seen how he looks at me when he thinks no one's watching. The way he stands too close, finds excuses to touch my arm, my waist.

I turn to Isaac. He's standing ten feet away, champagne in hand, his face carved from stone.

"Isaac." My voice sounds distant, hollow. "Tell them this is insane."

He meets my eyes for the first time in weeks. What I see there isn't love or even recognition. It's indifference.

"It's a practical solution, Ivy. We'll be divorced soon anyway. You need security."

The ballroom spins. Faces blur into a kaleidoscope of judgment and schadenfreude. Someone laughs. Someone else whispers.

Angelique leans close, her voice dropping to a whisper only I can hear. "Your mother's surgery is scheduled for Monday. Do be a good girl and accept Richard's proposal, won't you? It would be such a shame if there were complications with the payment."

She pulls back, her public smile perfect and cold.

I stand in the center of the ballroom, surrounded by people who once called themselves my friends, wearing a servant's uniform, being sold like property to a man who makes my skin crawl.

And my husband—the man who spent nine years convincing me he'd die for me—sips his champagne and looks away.