The Wife He Called No One

"Just looking for what's mine," Sophia said, trailing a manicured finger along the edge of the mahogany mantle.

I set the silver tea tray on the glass coffee table. The porcelain cups rattled against the saucers.

"Adrian is at the office," I said. "He won't be back until six."

"I didn't come for Adrian." She turned, her shoes hitting the hardwood with sharp thuds. "I left a few things here before I went to Paris. I want them back."

"Everything from the guest room was boxed up," I said. "Thomas put it in storage."

"Not the guest room." She smiled, a thin, sharp curve of red lips. "The master bedroom."

She walked past me, heading straight for the grand staircase.

"You can't go up there," I said, stepping in front of her at the fifth step.

"Move, Eloise."

"It is my bedroom."

"For now." Sophia stepped onto the fourth step. She didn't slow down. She didn't stop.

"I said no," I warned, gripping the wooden banister.

"And I said move."

"You have no right to be in this house."

"I have every right," she countered, her eyes flashing with sudden malice. "He bought this place for me. You just kept it warm."

She leaned forward, driving her shoulder hard into my chest.

My shoe slipped on the polished wood. I reached for the railing. My fingers grasped empty air.

I fell backward.

Marble struck my spine. A sharp, tearing agony ripped through my lower abdomen.

Warm wetness pooled between my thighs.

Nine weeks. I was nine weeks pregnant. The ultrasound picture was folded in my pocket, waiting for dinner tonight.

I curled into a ball on the foyer floor.

Above me, Sophia pulled out her phone. She ignored my bleeding legs.

"Adrian, come home," she cried into the receiver, her voice pitching up into a perfect panic. "Something happened. I think she—she fell down trying to push me."

I opened my mouth to speak. Only a dry gasp came out.

"Help," I managed to whisper.

Sophia looked down at me, her face entirely blank. She ended the call and crossed her arms, waiting.

The front door slammed open twenty minutes later.

Adrian rushed inside, his tie undone. He bypassed me entirely, taking the stairs two at a time to reach Sophia.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, pulling her into his chest. He checked her arms, her face, running his hands over her shoulders.

"I am fine," she sobbed into his shirt. "She just got so angry when I asked for my old jewelry. She tried to shove me."

Adrian finally turned his head. He looked down at me.

Blood stained the white marble beneath my skirt.

"Get up," Adrian said, his tone entirely devoid of pity. "Stop performing."

I stared up at him. My hands shook. I pressed my palms flat against the stone, trying to push myself upright.

My right hand slid through the slick, dark red pool, smearing a thick bloody streak across the floor.

He said stop performing.

I repeated those two words twice in my head. Then, a dry, cracked laugh escaped my throat.

Three years of marriage. To him, all of it was just a bad show I put on. Fine. The show is over. Curtain.

"I need a doctor," I whispered, clutching my stomach.

"You need a psychiatrist," Adrian replied, turning his back on me. "I am taking Sophia to the hospital. She is in shock."

"Adrian, please," I choked out. "The baby."

He didn't hear me. He was already guiding her out the door. He never looked back at the blood.

The estate manager found me. He dialed 911.

Two hours later, I lay on a stiff bed in Cedars-Sinai. The doctor had already come and gone. The ultrasound picture in my pocket was soaked in red.

Adrian's assistant, Mark, walked into the sterile white room. He kept his gaze fixed on the wall.

He placed a manila folder on the rolling tray table, followed by a crisp piece of paper.

"Mr. Ashford is in the east wing with Miss Vance," Mark said. "He asked me to give you this. It is a check for fifty thousand dollars. For your trouble."

I looked at the check. Then I looked at the folder.

"And those?" I asked, pointing to the thick stack of documents.

"The divorce settlement. He wants it signed tonight."

"He didn't even come to check on me," I stated.

"He is busy."

"Busy comforting the woman who pushed his wife down the stairs."

"Miss Vance is very distressed," Mark replied. "Please sign the papers, Mrs. Ashford."

"Did you tell him why I was admitted?" I asked.

"I informed him you had a minor accident."

"A minor accident," I repeated, resting my hand on my flat, empty stomach. "Did you tell him about his child?"

Mark finally looked at me. His eyes widened slightly. "Child?"

"Leave," I told him.

"Mrs. Ashford, I—"

"I said get out!" I shouted, grabbing the plastic water pitcher and hurling it at the wall next to him. It shattered, spilling ice across the linoleum.

Mark flinched, nodded once, and hurried out.

The room fell silent.

Deep in my handbag, a sharp, unfamiliar ringtone pierced the quiet.

I pulled out a black, heavy phone. I hadn't charged it in three years, yet the battery icon showed full. An encrypted line.

I pressed accept.

"Miss Wendover," a crisp, elderly British voice spoke. Mr. Whitfield, the head steward of the Wendover estate.

"Mr. Whitfield."

"Enough," he said, the single word carrying the weight of an empire. "Your grandfather says—come home."

"He knows?" I asked.

"We know everything. The jet is waiting at LAX."

I closed my eyes. "Tell him I am on my way."

I ended the call.

I pulled the manila folder onto my lap. I flipped to the final page.

On the signature line, I grabbed a pen and wrote: Eloise Wendover.

Under the stipulations section, I added a single line in black ink.

Net assets requested: zero. I am not taking anything from this marriage. Because nothing in it was ever mine.

I dropped the pen on the tray.

I grabbed my left hand and slid the diamond band off my ring finger. The metal felt heavy, foreign.

I set the ring on top of the fifty-thousand-dollar check. The diamond caught the harsh fluorescent light, spinning in a tight circle before clattering flat against the paper.

It landed face up. The inner band displayed the tiny engraving from three years ago.

Forever, A.

I stared at the letters, let out a short laugh, and spoke to the empty room.

"Forever lasted three years. Not bad."