Chapter 2 - THE WOMAN WHO STOLE MY SON’S LAST CHANCE
At 10:36 that morning, I walked into the office of Dr.
Eleanor Harper.
She was the obstetrician who had cared for Meline since the beginning of her pregnancy.
We had met several times.
She had once told me that my wife needed less stress, more rest, and a husband who understood that money was not a substitute for presence.
I’d laughed politely.
I wasn’t laughing now.
Dr.
Harper sat behind her desk, her glasses resting beside a stack of medical records.
She didn’t offer me coffee.
“Tell me exactly what happened to my son,” I said.
She folded her hands.
“Your wife arrived shortly after nine on Monday evening.
She had suffered abdominal trauma.
Her blood pressure was dangerously low, and the baby was showing signs of severe distress.”
“Why didn’t anyone call me?”
“We did.”
The answer struck like a slap.
“Your wife requested you several times.
Our staff made repeated attempts to reach you.”
I looked down.
“The emergency surgery took place early Tuesday morning.
We did everything medically possible.”
“Was he alive when he was born?”
Dr.
Harper paused.
“He had a heartbeat when the team began resuscitation.”
I felt something inside me rise.
Hope.
Stupid, desperate hope.
“Then he lived?”
“For a very short time.
His heart stopped despite the efforts of the neonatal team.”
“Did he cry?”
Her eyes softened.
“No.”
“Did Meline get to hold him?”
“Yes.”
I pressed my knuckles against my mouth.
“Was she alone?”
“One of our nurses stayed with her.”
I closed my eyes.
Somewhere in that hospital, at an hour when I’d been asleep beside Elena, my wife had held our dying son.
She had probably touched his cheeks.
Counted his fingers.
Whispered that she loved him.
And every time she looked toward the door, she must have believed I might still appear.
“What did she say?”
Dr.
Harper considered me for a long moment.
“She asked if the baby could hear his father.”
I stopped breathing.
“One of the nurses explained that hearing develops before birth, and that familiar voices can sometimes be comforting.”
I stared at her.
“Meline asked us to call you.”
My throat closed.
“Did you?”
“Twice during that period.”
I remembered my phone vibrating against the nightstand.
Elena had rolled toward me.
“Leave it,” she’d murmured.
And I had.
Dr.
Harper’s voice seemed to come from a great distance.
“Mr.
Vance, your wife wasn’t asking you to save your son.
She knew that might not be possible.
She wanted him to hear your voice.”
I bent forward until my forehead touched my hands.
For years, I had believed the worst thing a man could do was fail to provide for his family.
Now I knew better.
The worst thing was to be needed and choose not to come.
The security supervisor at my townhouse was a man named Oscar Reyes.
He had worked for me for eleven years.
When I entered the building’s monitoring office, he stood so quickly his chair scraped against the floor.
“Mr.
Vance.”
“I need the footage from Monday night.”
His face changed.
“Sir—”
“Don’t.”
I placed Meline’s access log on the desk.
“Don’t lie to me today.”
Oscar looked toward the closed door.
“Mr.
Bernard ordered the footage deleted.”
A cold sensation traveled through my body.
“Deleted?”
“He said Mrs.
Vance had an accident and that the family wanted privacy.”
“Did you delete it?”
Oscar hesitated.
Then he opened a drawer.
Inside was a small black storage drive.
“I made a copy first.”
“Why?”
He swallowed.
“Because I’ve got a wife, sir.
And she’s pregnant too.”
He turned toward the monitor.
The footage showed our front entrance.
At 8:41 p.m., Elena appeared.
She wore a dark green coat and carried a leather folder.
She entered using the guest code I had authorized.
A minute later, Meline appeared in the hallway.
She was barefoot.
Still wearing her cream maternity dress.
I could tell from the way she held her lower back that she was uncomfortable.
The camera had no sound.
Elena said something.
Meline shook her head.
Elena held out the folder.
Meline refused it.
The argument continued.
Then Meline turned toward the staircase leading down to the entrance vestibule.
Elena followed her.
I leaned closer.
“What is she doing?”
Oscar didn’t answer.
On the screen, Elena reached for Meline’s arm.
Meline pulled away.
Elena grabbed her again.
Meline twisted, one hand shielding her stomach.
Then Elena shoved her.
Not a violent, theatrical movement.
Not something that looked dramatic.
Just one sharp, furious push.
A movement that lasted less than a second.
Meline stepped backward.
Her heel missed the top step.
And my wife fell.
I heard myself make a sound I had never made before.
A broken, animal sound.
Meline struck the edge of the staircase.
She disappeared below the camera’s view.
Elena stood frozen.
Then she looked toward the front door.
Not toward Meline.
Toward the exit.
“Keep playing,” I whispered.
At 8:47, our longtime housekeeper, Rosa, came running from the kitchen.
She dropped to her knees beside the stairs.
Elena moved backward.
Rosa shouted something.
Elena took out her phone.
At 8:49, Bernard appeared at the entrance.
He hurried toward Elena.
Then he looked down the staircase.
I watched him take one step toward my wife.
Stop.
And turn back to Elena.
My hands began to tremble.
“What happened next?”
Oscar looked sick.
“Rosa called emergency services.
Mr.
Bernard told everyone not to discuss the incident until the family’s attorneys had reviewed it.”
“Where is Rosa?”
“She’s at home.
Mr.
Bernard put her on leave.”
I stared at the frozen image of my pregnant wife disappearing down the stairs.
Then I remembered a message Elena had sent that night.
Doctors are still checking me.
Please wait outside.
I’ll tell you when you can come in.
Timestamp: 8:39 p.m.
I had sat in my car outside St.
Catherine’s, watching the entrance and waiting for her instructions.
At that exact moment, she had been two miles away.
Inside my home.
With my wife.
Elena hadn’t been bleeding when she called me.
She had needed me out of the house.
Bernard Whitlock was waiting in my office when I arrived.
He had been my assistant and chief of staff for fourteen years.
He knew my calendar better than I did.
He knew which investors I disliked, which board members I trusted, and which journalists could be persuaded to change a headline.
He even knew how Meline took her tea.
For years, I had called him indispensable.
Now he stood as I entered, holding a leather portfolio.
“Sir, I heard about your wife.
I’m terribly—”
I threw the security log onto his desk.
“How long?”
He looked down.
“I don’t understand.”
“How long have you known Elena hurt Meline?”
His face turned gray.
“Damen—”
“Answer me.”
He swallowed.
“Since Monday night.”
The room seemed to narrow.
“Six days.”
“It was a complicated situation.”
“Six days, Bernard.”
“Miss Courtland said it was accidental.”
I stepped closer.
“Then why did you erase the footage?”
He opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
“Why did you tell me Meline was stable?”
“Her condition improved after surgery.”
“Our son died.”
His eyes lowered.
I moved around the desk.
“My son died while you were telling me everything was under control.”
Bernard’s composure finally cracked.
“I was trying to protect the company.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“Elena’s father was preparing the next funding round.
If an assault allegation became public, the deal could collapse.
The board would have questions about your relationship.
The press would destroy you.”
For a moment, I couldn’t comprehend what he was saying.
He had weighed my son’s death against an investment agreement.
And considered the agreement more important.
“Did Meline ask for me?”
Bernard looked away.
“Yes.”
“How many times?”
“Several.”
“Did she know you were speaking to me?”
He said nothing.
“Bernard.”
“She believed I was passing along her messages.”
My stomach twisted.
“What messages?”
He sat down slowly.
“The night of the operation, she asked me to tell you they might lose the baby.”
I gripped the edge of his desk.
“And?”
“Later, she asked me to tell you he hadn’t survived.”
I stared at him.
“You knew?”
He whispered, “Yes.”
“You knew my child was dead?”
“Yes.”
“And you let me stay with Elena?”
His face crumpled.
“I thought if you came back immediately, there would be a scandal.
I thought I’d give you a few days to resolve things privately.”
A terrible stillness settled over me.
I wanted to hit him.
I wanted to destroy the desk.
I wanted to make someone hurt as badly as I did.
But the truth was standing between us.
Bernard had lied.
Elena had attacked my wife.
And I had made both things possible.
I had trained Bernard to protect my reputation above everything else.
I had told him never to interrupt me with domestic problems.
I had given Elena access to my home.
They had made their choices.
And I had spent months teaching them that my wife was someone who could be pushed aside.
I picked up my phone.
“You’re terminated.”
Bernard stood.
“Damen, please.
Fourteen years—”
“Call building security.
Collect your belongings under supervision.
Do not access another company system.”
“You’re destroying everything we’ve built.”
I looked at him.
“No.”
My voice came out barely above a whisper.
“I’m finally seeing what we built it on.”
I found Elena in the penthouse that afternoon.
She was standing in front of the bedroom mirror, fastening a diamond necklace I’d given her three weeks earlier.
When she saw me, she smiled.
“You’re back early.”
I didn’t answer.
She turned.
“Damen?”
I placed my phone on the dressing table.
The security footage was paused at the moment before Meline fell.
Elena looked down.
The color vanished from her face.
“Where did you get that?”
“Why did you go to my house?”
She stepped backward.
“I can explain.”
“Then explain.”
She swallowed.
“Your wife called me.”
I shook my head.
“Don’t.”
“She knew about us.
She said she was going to ruin my reputation.”
“You went there carrying papers.”
Elena’s eyes flickered.
“Bernard prepared a separation agreement.”
“For my wife?”
“I thought if she signed it, everything could end peacefully.”
“Peacefully?”
My voice rose.
“You walked into the home of a pregnant woman and demanded she give up her marriage.”
“She knew the marriage was over.”
“That was for me to tell her.”
“Then why hadn’t you?”
The question landed with brutal precision.
I couldn’t answer.
Elena saw my hesitation.
Her expression hardened.
“Don’t suddenly pretend you’re innocent.
You told me you loved me.”
“I told you I was unhappy.”
“You told me you couldn’t leave because of the baby.”
I looked at her.
And remembered.
A month earlier, Elena had asked when I intended to divorce Meline.
I’d said, “I can’t do anything while she’s pregnant.
It would look terrible.”
I’d said it casually.
Like a man discussing a delayed contract.
Elena continued.
“Every time I mentioned our future, you brought up the pregnancy.”
My chest tightened.
“What did you say to her?”
Elena stared at the floor.
“That you had chosen me.”
“And?”
“That you were only staying because of the child.”
I thought of Meline standing barefoot in the hallway.
Her face.
Her hand over her stomach.
“What did she say?”
Elena’s lips trembled.
“She said she didn’t want you anymore.”
For a moment, neither of us moved.
“She said I could have you,” Elena whispered.
“She said all she wanted was for you to stop lying to her.”
I closed my eyes.
“Then why did you touch her?”
“She tried to leave.”
“So you stopped her?”
“I grabbed her arm.
She pulled away.”
“You pushed her.”
“I didn’t mean for her to fall!”
Elena began crying.
“I swear, Damen, I didn’t want the baby to die.”
I looked at the woman I’d betrayed my wife for.
Eight months of secret dinners.
Hotel rooms.
Private flights.
Endless compliments.
A thousand excuses.
I’d convinced myself that Elena understood me.
Now I understood that I had never really known her.
“You watched her fall,” I said.
“I panicked.”
“And you called Bernard before you called an ambulance.”
“Please.”
“You left her bleeding on the floor.”
“Rosa was there!”
I felt my face go cold.
“My son is dead.”
Elena covered her mouth.
“And my wife spent six days in a hospital asking for me.”
She reached toward my arm.
I stepped away.
“Don’t touch me.”
“Damen, I love you.”
For eight months, those words had been enough to make me forget my obligations.
Now they sounded like something ugly.
Like a transaction neither of us wanted to admit we’d made.
I took the necklace from the dressing table.
Placed it beside her.
Then walked toward the door.
“Where are you going?” she cried.
“To give the police the recording.”
Her voice turned sharp.
“Do you realize what that will do to your company?”
I stopped.
For one second, I saw the old version of myself.
The man who calculated risk.
The man who protected shareholders.
The man who believed everything had a price.
Then I saw a tiny blue hat.
“My company can survive a scandal,” I said.
“My son couldn’t survive the people I let into his home.”
I walked out.
That evening, after giving a formal statement to investigators and preserving the original security records, I returned to the townhouse.
Rosa had agreed to meet me there.
She was sitting at the kitchen table, twisting a handkerchief between her fingers.
When I entered, she stood.
“Mr.
Damen.”
“Please sit.”
She hesitated.
Then lowered herself into the chair.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
Her eyes filled.
“I should have come sooner.”
“I should never have let Bernard send you away.”
Rosa wiped her cheeks.
“Mrs.
Meline was so frightened.”
I sat opposite her.
“Tell me.”
She stared at the table.
“When I heard the noise, I thought someone had dropped a tray.
Then I heard her crying.”
My chest constricted.
“Was she conscious?”
“Yes.”
“Did she say anything?”
Rosa nodded.
“She kept touching her stomach and saying, ‘Please, not my baby.
Please, not my baby.'”
I looked away.
Rosa began crying.
“I held her hand until the ambulance came.
She asked for you.”
I couldn’t speak.
“She said, ‘Tell Damen I tried to keep him safe.'”
My eyes burned.
“She meant the baby?”
Rosa nodded.
Then she reached into her cardigan pocket.
“I’ve been keeping something.”
She placed a folded sheet of paper on the table.
It was an ultrasound appointment confirmation.
Monday.
9:00 a.m.
Dr.
Harper’s office.
On the bottom, Meline had written a message in blue ink.
Damen, please come this time.
There is something important I want us to hear together.
I stared at it.
“She carried this in her purse,” Rosa whispered.
“The paramedics gave her bag back to me.
I thought you’d want to see.”
I turned the paper over.
Attached to the back was a small ultrasound photograph.
I’d seen dozens of them before.
Gray shadows.
White outlines.
Shapes I could never identify.
But this one was different.
At the top, beneath Meline’s name, were two small labels.
FETUS A.
FETUS B.
I stopped breathing.
My eyes moved between them.
Once.
Twice.
Then I looked at Rosa.
“What is this?”
Her expression changed.
“Mr.
Damen?”
I held up the photograph.
“Why are there two?”
Rosa began to cry again.
And the world I thought had already collapsed beneath me broke open a second time.
May you like
Because my wife hadn’t been carrying one baby.
She had been carrying two.
