My Husband’s Wife Wants My Baby Dead

The scar tissue on my forearm has faded to silver threads, barely visible under the right lighting. Three years of physical therapy, reconstructive surgery, and relentless study have rebuilt me from ash. I chose to keep some scars—the ones on my back, hidden beneath tailored suits. Reminders.

I stand in front of the mirror in my Manhattan apartment, adjusting the collar of my charcoal blazer. The woman staring back is a stranger to the girl who used to arrange place cards and fetch coffee. Sharp cheekbones. Hair cut into a severe bob that frames my face like a weapon. Eyes that have seen the bottom of hell and climbed back out.

Prosecutor Harper Collins. The name tastes like victory.

My phone buzzes. A text from my father: *Proud of you. Be careful tonight.*

The Plaza ballroom glitters with the same breed of wealth that filled the Hamptons mansion three years ago. Different faces, same predatory smiles. I move through the crowd with practiced ease, champagne flute in hand, nodding at judges and defense attorneys who don't recognize the ghost in their midst.

Then I see him.

Max stands near the bar, older but still magnetic in his bespoke tuxedo. His hair has threads of silver at the temples now. He's laughing at something a congressman says, that corporate charm dialed to maximum. Jacqueline isn't with him—I'd heard rumors of separate residences, a marriage held together by contracts and spite.

I don't approach. I simply position myself in his sightline and wait.

It takes exactly four minutes.

His gaze sweeps the room in that habitual scan successful men do, cataloging threats and opportunities. When his eyes land on me, the world stops. The champagne flute slips from his fingers, crystal exploding against marble in a spray of golden liquid.

I watch the color drain from his face. Watch his hand reach out, grasping air, as if he's seeing a hallucination he can dispel through touch.

I smile. It's not kind.

He's moving toward me before his brain catches up to his body, shoving through the crowd with none of his usual polish. People turn, murmuring. I hold my ground.

"Harper." My name comes out strangled, desperate. "You're—"

"Prosecutor Collins," I correct, extending my hand with clinical precision. "I don't believe we've met. Though I've heard so much about you, Mr. Hart."

His hand trembles as it closes around mine. His palm is clammy. "This isn't possible. You died. I went to your funeral."

"You're thinking of my cousin." I withdraw my hand, wiping it subtly on my skirt. "Harper Collins. Tragic story. Gas leak, I believe? Such a shame. We were very close."

The lie hangs between us, gossamer-thin and sharp as a garrote. His eyes search my face, cataloging every familiar feature—the curve of my jaw, the shape of my mouth. But the scars are gone. The meekness is gone. I am unrecognizable and undeniable all at once.

"You're lying," he whispers. "I know you. I know—"

"You knew a girl who no longer exists." I lean closer, my voice dropping to a register only he can hear. "But I know you, Maximilian. I know exactly what you are."

I step back before he can respond, turning to greet the District Attorney with a warm smile. "Sir, wonderful event. Have you met Mr. Hart? I'm sure we'll be seeing quite a lot of each other. I've been assigned to the white-collar crime division."

Max's face goes from white to gray.

I leave him standing there, drowning in the wreckage of his certainty, and disappear into the crowd.

***

The voicemails start the next morning.

*"Harper, I know it's you. Call me. Please."*

*"You can't just—we need to talk. I need to explain—"*

*"I see you now. The Judge's daughter. You played me. You fucking played me."*

By the fifth message, his voice has shifted from desperate to dangerous. *"You think you can just come back? Haunt me? I won't let you destroy what I've built. I won't—"*

I delete them all without listening to the end.

But when I leave the courthouse that evening, I feel eyes on my back. I catch a glimpse of a black town car idling across the street, tinted windows reflecting nothing. It follows me for three blocks before peeling away.

My phone rings. Unknown number.

I answer.

"I know you're alive," Max says. No preamble. No charm. "And I know you're his daughter. You had power all along. You could have saved yourself, but you let me think—"

"Let you think I was nothing?" I finish. "I was nothing, Max. You made sure of that. But ghosts have a way of coming back stronger."

"Harper—"

"Prosecutor Collins," I correct again. "And if you contact me outside official channels again, I'll file a restraining order. I'm sure the press would love that story."

I hang up.

But as I walk into my apartment building, I can still feel him out there in the dark. Watching. Wanting. Obsessing.

Good.

Let him burn the way I did.