Nina took one look at my face and asked no questions, only nodded when I told her there might be press by afternoon and that she should remain in the suite until Maris sent security clearance. I kissed each baby once on the forehead, inhaled that impossible warm-milk sweetness of their skin, and felt a fierce, clarifying rage move through me again.
He had looked at the woman who gave him sons and called her a burden.
Not in a fight at home. Not in some private, regrettable collapse. At his own gala, while drinking champagne beneath banners celebrating his leadership, he took the body that had carried his children, the exhaustion I’d been swallowing alone, and used it as his final insult. That was the part he would never understand: the cruelty itself mattered, but its timing mattered more. He had chosen spectacle. So I chose architecture.
By 7:52, the boardroom was full.