My Husband Defended His Assistant Over Our Baby

I stood up. My chair scraped against the floor.

I walked to the sideboard. My mother's crystal vase sat there—heavy, expensive, the kind Eleanor always admired at other people's houses. I picked it up.

The weight felt good in my hand.

I turned. Kellan was still talking. Something about accidents. Something about me needing to calm down.

I hurled the vase at the wall.

It exploded. Glass flew everywhere. Shards scattered across the hardwood like ice under stage lights. The sound was so loud Eleanor screamed.

Then silence.

I looked at them. All three of them frozen at the table.

"I'll be sending invoices," I said. My voice came out calm. Steady. "Every piece of furniture in this apartment. Every painting. Every appliance. Every dish in that cabinet. All purchased with Patterson money. You'll receive itemized bills by the end of the week."

Eleanor's face went white. "You can't—"

"And I'm filing for divorce."

Kellan shot to his feet. His chair hit the floor behind him. "Rosie, stop this—"

He grabbed my arm.

I looked down at his hand. Then at his face.

His jaw was tight. His eyes were angry. Not hurt. Not confused. Angry.

Like I was the one who'd done something wrong.

Malia stood up too. Her hand went to her chest—a nervous gesture, fingers pressed just below her collarbone.

Her dress shifted.

I saw it.

A tattoo. Dark lines. Curved and precise. Right there on the left side of her chest where the wrap dress had pulled open.

I stared.

It was a scar. Not hers. Kellan's.

The bullet wound. The one from that night outside the library at Columbia. The night that changed everything. The scar I'd kissed a thousand times. The scar I'd traced with my fingertips in the dark. The scar that made me believe I owed him my whole life.

She'd tattooed it onto her own body.

An exact replica.

I looked at Kellan.

His face changed. Just for a second. Guilt flickered across his features—fast, like something caught in headlights—and then he shut it down.

He knew.

He'd always known.

I felt something inside me go still. Not break. Not shatter. Just stop.

All the years I'd spent telling myself I owed him. All the nights I'd lain awake thinking about that bullet. All the gratitude I'd carried like a stone in my chest.

Gone.

I looked at Malia. She'd pulled the dress closed again. Her eyes were wide. Innocent.

Eleanor was talking. Her voice was shrill. "Rosie, you're being hysterical—this is completely inappropriate—"

I pulled my arm free from Kellan's grip.

He didn't fight me.

I walked past all of them. Through the living room. Past the couch I'd chosen. Past the coffee table I'd ordered. Past the art on the walls that came from my family's collection.

Kellan followed me into the hallway. "Rosie, wait—let's talk about this—"

I stopped. I turned.

He stood there in his rolled-up sleeves. Hair perfect. Face desperate now that I was actually leaving.

"You knew," I said quietly.

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

"You knew about the tattoo."

"It's not—" He ran a hand through his hair. "It doesn't mean anything."

I looked at him. Really looked at him.

This man I'd loved. This man I'd given up everything for.

I felt nothing.

"Goodbye, Kellan," I said.

I walked out.

I didn't take my coat. I didn't take my purse. I left it all there—the keys, the credit cards, the pregnancy test still folded in the inside pocket.

I took the elevator down to the lobby. My dress was still stained with wine. My feet were bare. I must have looked insane.

I didn't care.

The doorman called me a cab. I gave the driver my father's address.

Manhattan blurred past the window. Lights and glass and people living their lives.

I pressed my forehead against the cold window.

The scar I'd worshipped for five years—the proof of his love, the symbol of my debt—was nothing.

Just ink on someone else's skin.

And I was free.