The sticker on the passenger-side window still read "Phoebe's Seat."
The irony was suffocating.
On the drive home, Benedict transferred me $131.40, as if afraid I might be angry. "Phoebe, our daughter's still in the incubator. If you need more money, just say the word. Your husband can afford it."
A metallic taste surged up the back of my throat.
I almost told him. The baby was gone.
But my gaze drifted past the screen of my phone and landed on Vivian in the passenger seat, picking up her own phone. She'd just accepted a transfer from Benedict.
$1,314,520.
In the silence of that car, an invisible handprint burned across my face.
Benedict brought Vivian back to our home without a shred of hesitation. "Phoebe, Vivian's still recovering from the delivery. She needs someone to look after her. Can you just be understanding about this? For me?"
If this had been before, I would have screamed. I would have torn the walls down.
But now, something in me simply... gave out.
"Fine."
Benedict looked stunned for a second, then slid a gold bracelet onto my wrist. "Good girl. I knew you'd be the bigger person."
But the bracelet—it was the same design Vivian had shown off on her social media.