Chapter 2: Blood on His Shirt

I scrambled to gather the pregnancy tests, shoving them deep beneath tissues and cotton balls at the bottom of the trash. My bare feet barely made a sound as I hurried down the marble staircase, heart pounding.

Nathan walked in, exhaustion clinging to him like the late November chill. His charcoal Armani coat was slick with night frost. As he shrugged it off, a sharp, metallic tang hit my nose, and for a second, my stomach lurched. There were bloodstains on his shirt.

"Are you hurt?" The words tumbled out before I could stop myself. I reached out on instinct, the way a wife should—only to have Nathan jerk away, his voice as cold as the wind outside.

"Don’t come any closer." The order was sharp, final. My hand dropped, disappointment curling tight in my chest.

Just as I turned to fetch a first aid kit, Nathan spoke, businesslike. "It’s not my blood. One of my guys crossed me. I handled it. Sent him packing to South America."

His eyes flicked to mine, dark and unreadable. "Betrayal never goes unpunished, you know that, right?"

My mouth went dry, words stuck somewhere between my heart and throat. I pressed my trembling fingers behind my back, pulse hammering in my ears. The world knew Nathan was ruthless—his reputation for cutting down rivals was legendary. If he found out I’d cheated, my fate would be sealed. I could already see the tabloid headlines: “Blackwood Wife Vanishes in Scandal.”

Nathan’s gaze swept over me, clinical and cold. "Why do you look so terrible? Was it the blood? I’ll go shower."

He moved for the stairs, loosening his tie. I watched him, tall and powerful, every movement controlled. My voice slipped out, a confession I couldn’t hold back:

"Nathan, why didn’t you come on my birthday?"

He stopped halfway up, back rigid. Silence stretched, broken only by the grandfather clock’s ticking. His shoulders tensed beneath the expensive fabric.

I already knew the answer. That night, his childhood sweetheart had come back to New York. Sophia. She posted a sunset shot from their rooftop—captioned, “Some things never change.” Her hand was curled around his arm, like she belonged there.

Nathan’s reply was smooth, a practiced lie. "I had work. Didn’t I make it up to you with a gift? Don’t you like it?"

"No," I said, flat and defeated. The lie stung. The gift—an emerald green Birkin—was expensive but impersonal, nothing I’d ever wanted. He never listened. If he’d been there that night, would any of this have happened?