My Husband Burned Our Baby Into His Roses

I took the role.

The script arrived by messenger the next morning. Twenty-three pages. My character didn't have a name, just a description: Woman, late twenties, track marks on her arms, works the streets near the port. Dies on page nineteen.

I read it once. Then I drove to set.

The director was young, maybe thirty, with the kind of beard that said he took himself seriously. He watched me deliver my lines on the first take and went very still. On the second take, he leaned forward. By the third, he'd stopped giving notes.

At lunch I heard him tell the DP, "She's not acting. I don't know what she's doing, but she's not acting."

He was right. I wasn't. I was just standing there, saying words, watching myself from somewhere outside my body. The character was supposed to be hollowed out by addiction and desperation. I didn't have to reach for it. I just had to stand there and let the camera see what was already true.

Every night I drove back to the Hamptons. Every night I sat in the shower with the water running until it went cold. I pressed my thumb against the inside of my left wrist and watched the bruise spread, purple to green to yellow, a private calendar of days I was not keeping track of any other way.

Isaac didn't call.

I didn't tell him I was six weeks pregnant.

I didn't tell him the film wrapped.

I didn't tell him anything.

Then came the Payne Industries annual gala.

Isaac sent a car. Not a request—a car, idling in the driveway at six p.m., driver in a black suit holding the door. I thought about staying home. I thought about a lot of things. But I put on a dress and got in.

The Plaza ballroom was full of people who knew my name and wouldn't say it to my face anymore. I felt their eyes sliding past me, conversations pausing half a second too long. I lifted my chin and smiled the way I used to smile in auditions, back when I still believed my face could convince people of things.

Isaac was near the bar, surrounded by board members. He saw me and nodded once, the way you'd acknowledge a colleague. I nodded back.

Then I saw her.

Hailey stood near the silent auction tables, sleek in black, laughing at something a donor had said. And on her wrist, catching the light from the chandeliers, was the rosary bracelet.

The one I'd bought after I walked barefoot from our apartment to St. Patrick's Cathedral, station to station, while Isaac was in the ICU with sepsis and a failing liver. The one I'd had blessed by the priest who asked if I was all right because my feet were bleeding through my stockings. The one I'd placed in Isaac's hand the day he woke up and told him, *I prayed for you at every station. You're not allowed to leave me.*

Hailey caught me staring. She didn't look away. She turned her wrist slowly, deliberately, so the cross caught the light. Then she smiled.

I walked to the restroom. Locked the stall. Bent over the toilet and vomited so quietly I didn't make a sound.

When I came out, I rinsed my mouth and looked at myself in the mirror. My face was pale. My eyes were flat. I looked like my character from the film. I looked like someone who'd already died on page nineteen.

I drove back to the Hamptons. I didn't say goodbye.

Isaac came home after midnight. I heard his car in the driveway, his keys on the hall table, his footsteps on the stairs. He opened the bedroom door.

"You left early," he said.

I was sitting on the edge of the bed, still in my dress. I looked at him.

"The bracelet," I said.

He blinked. "What?"

"The rosary bracelet. The one I gave you when you were in the hospital. Hailey's wearing it."

He frowned, genuinely confused, like I'd asked him about a file he'd misplaced. "I gave that to her last month. As a thank-you. She handled the PR crisis after those photos leaked. It seemed appropriate."

Appropriate.

I stared at him. I waited for him to remember. To see my face and understand what he'd just said. To realize he'd taken the most sacred thing I'd ever done and handed it to the woman who'd leaked the photos in the first place.

He didn't.

"Sofia, it's a bracelet," he said, impatient now. "You're making this into something it's not."

I pressed my thumb into my wrist. The bruise was still there, faint yellow now, almost gone.

"Get some rest," I said quietly. "You look tired."

He looked at me for a long moment. Then he turned and walked out.

I heard him go downstairs. Heard the front door open and close. Heard his car start.

I sat on the floor with my back against the bedroom door and stayed there until the sky turned grey. My hand rested on my stomach, where a secret was growing that I would not tell him. Not now. Maybe not ever.

I thought about the bracelet on Hailey's wrist.

I thought about the woman I used to be, the one who walked barefoot through the city because she believed love could be proven through suffering.

That woman was gone.

I didn't cry. I didn't move.

I just sat there, very still, and waited for morning.