I walked out of the hospital carrying my three-year-old daughter’s ashes when my husband finally answered his phone.

I slid the burner phone beneath the mattress of Chloe’s crib just as the heavy brass handle turned.

Brendan pushed the door open, his tailored jacket draped over one forearm, his silk tie loosened at the throat. He carried the faint, unmistakable scent of expensive bourbon and sweet jasmine perfume—Samantha’s signature scent. He didn’t look at the crib. He didn’t look at the small porcelain container sitting quietly in the center of the pink sheets. He looked only at me, his mouth curling into that familiar, condescending smirk he had perfected over five years of marriage.

"Still hiding in the dark, Nora?" he asked, tossing his car keys onto Chloe’s changing table. The metallic clatter echoed harshly against the silent walls. "Ximena told me you were acting hysterical downstairs. Carrying some vase around like a lunatic."

I stood motionless beside the window, my fingers locked tightly in the folds of my black coat. I didn't breathe. I didn't blink. I wanted to see every micro-expression on his handsome, hollow face.

"I approved the transfer this afternoon," Brendan continued, running a hand through his styled dark hair, completely indifferent. "It took some restructuring through Samantha’s logistics firm, but the hospital should have the funds by Friday. So you can stop the silent treatment. You can stop embarrassing me in front of the board, and you can certainly stop running to my sister to beg like a stray dog."

"Friday," I repeated. My voice sounded flat, hollowed out of all human warmth.

"Yes, Friday," he snapped, irritated by my lack of gratitude. "Do you have any idea how tight cash flow is right now with the foreign acquisition? Samantha had to pull three favors with our offshore accounts just to clear twenty-five thousand dollars without triggering an audit. You act like money grows on trees just because Chloe has a fever."

"A fever," I whispered.

"Whatever it is," he waved his hand dismissively, turning toward the door. "The doctor said it was an infection. Kids get sick. You’ve always been prone to dramatics, Nora. Just like your father was before he lost his mind and drank himself into an early grave."

A cold shudder ran down my spine, but it wasn't grief anymore. It was pure, unadulterated venom. My father hadn't drank himself to death; he had worked himself into heart failure trying to secure an empire that Brendan had spent the last three years quietly bleeding dry.

Brendan took two steps into the hallway, then stopped, glancing over his shoulder. "Where is she anyway? Did the nanny put her down at the hospital, or did you leave her with the night staff? I don't hear the monitor."

"She isn't at the hospital, Brendan."

He frowned, his brows knitting together in mild annoyance. "Then where is she? Don't tell me you dragged her home in the cold just to prove a point."

"Look in the crib."

He rolled his eyes, letting out a heavy, theatrical sigh that communicated just how exhausting he found my existence. "I don't have time for your childish games, Nora. I have an early meeting with the overseas investors tomorrow morning."

Yet, something in the absolute stillness of the room made him hesitate. He turned around slowly. His polished dress shoes clicked against the hardwood floor as he walked back toward the white wooden crib.

"Chloe?" he muttered, leaning over the rail.