Vivian glanced toward the bed, her lips curling into that identical, venomous, high-society sneer she had perfected across twenty-three corporate factoring junkets:
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“Let her go, Marcus. Honestly, it’s a blessing. She was an un-marketable relic from your startup days who couldn't even carry a pregnancy to term. Tomorrow morning, we announce our merger with Crane Logistics, we file for an uncontested desertion divorce, and we take Hale Dynamics to forty billion dollars without an emotional deadweight dragging behind us.”
Marcus slowly turned around.
The grief and panic in his face suddenly calcified into an expression of cold, terrifying, murderous revulsion.
He looked at the champagne-stained collar of his tuxedo shirt. He looked at the four-million-dollar diamond blazing on Vivian’s hand.
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And then he looked at the drying crimson drop of his dead child’s blood on the white duvet beside our sonogram.
