Lucas shoved through the door, leaving me curled on the couch, trembling.
"Take good care of Grandfather at home. You have your strengths too, don't you?"
The words hit like a slap across the face.
I'd been a caregiver for five years. Five years learning IV insertion, wound care, rehabilitation massage. I'd helped stroke patients walk again and sat with terminal cancer patients through their final days. Maya always said I had a gift—that I could hear trouble in a patient's breathing, spot deterioration in a change of color.
That was the only thing I had. I was proud of it.
But coming from Lucas, it shrank to nothing more than "knowing how to take care of people"—as if anyone could do it. All that specialized knowledge I'd studied to help Mr. Rockefeller recover, those physical therapy techniques I'd practiced over and over, those emergency protocols and precautions I'd memorized—none of it mattered to him.
The wife he wanted dealt with brand designers, wore luxury effortlessly, and could be taken to formal events without preparation—a polished accessory on his social business card.
That would never be me. But Vivian fit perfectly. So all it took was one phone call for her to pull my husband away from me.
And I could only stand at the window, watching him walk out of the front hall.
I had to admit that no matter how many times I'd hated him, Lucas's figure still made my heart race. Tall and cold, every long-legged stride carrying that natural authority. Bodyguards closed in around him, black umbrellas raised, escorting him like royalty to the black luxury car crouched in the rain.
The door opened.
The moment I caught that flash of red inside, my breath stopped.
Vivian was stunning as ever in an aggressively gorgeous red haute couture gown, the bare expanse of her chest glowing under the dim light. She extended her arm gracefully, sliding it into Lucas's with perfect ease.
The headlights lit them like a movie poster. They looked like they were born to stand together.
A sharp cramp twisted through my stomach.
They were perfect for each other. Looks, presence, the unspoken chemistry in every gesture, everything screamed that this was the wife Lucas dreamed of. Vivian wasn't just an asset to his career. She could give him everything he wanted in life.
No wonder he favored her.
I closed my eyes.
As much as it hurt, my rational mind had to face reality. I never should have stepped into Lucas's world. This marriage was a mistake from the start.
I'd brought this on myself.
The engine faded, red taillights disappearing at the end of the manor drive. I sank to the cold floor, letting darkness swallow me.
A memory surfaced unbidden—the first time I realized Lucas and Vivian were more than colleagues.
Shortly after our wedding, Lucas brought me to a gala.
My first public appearance. I'd obsessed over it, hired the best stylists, spent five hours getting ready. I'd naively believed that if I looked beautiful enough, I'd deserve to stand beside him.
The gala dripped with money. The moment I stepped through those heavy antique doors on Lucas's arm, a thousand judging eyes pinned me down. Lucas felt me stiffen, but he only stared ahead and issued a cold warning, "Watch your posture, Ella. Don't forget you represent the Rockefeller name."
I'd mistaken that warning for intimacy. I told myself: I'm Lucas's woman. As long as Lucas is here, I'm safe.
But when the gala began and the men circled Lucas discussing hedge funds and acquisitions, I became meaningless background. The bejeweled society women dissected me with their eyes, weighing and measuring, then whispered loud enough for me to hear.
"I heard she's from a sanatorium? Hands that wiped dying bodies get to hold Saint Louis crystal?"
"God, I wouldn't touch anything she's used. Who knows what she's carrying?"
Their laughter pierced like needles. I gripped my champagne flute. I kept telling myself: I'm Lucas's legal wife. I have every right to be here.
