Chapter 1 - The Door I Should Never Have Closed“DAMEN, PLEASE! IF YOU WALK OUT THAT DOOR RIGHT NOW, SOMETHING TERRIBLE IS GOING TO HAPPEN TO OUR BABY!”
Those were the last words my wife spoke to me before I abandoned her.
And six days later, standing inside an empty hospital room with our dead son's tiny blue hat in my hands, I finally understood that she hadn't been trying to manipulate me.
She had been begging me to save our family.
But by then, the family I had taken for granted no longer existed.
I stared at the nurse standing across from me.
Her name was Naomi Brooks, according to the identification badge clipped to her teal scrubs.
She had probably delivered devastating news to hundreds of families throughout her career.
Yet something about the way she looked at me suggested that even she was struggling to understand the man standing before her.
“Tell me where my wife went,” I demanded.
“Mr. Vance, your wife requested privacy after her discharge.”
“I'm her husband.”
“I understand that.”
“Then give me her address.”
Naomi's expression hardened.
“Being her husband doesn't give me permission to violate her wishes.”
For forty-one years, I had lived in a world where people rarely refused me.
I owned a multibillion-dollar company.
I had properties in Manhattan, Aspen, and the Hamptons.
People rearranged their schedules around mine.
But this woman, whose annual salary was probably less than what I spent maintaining one of my vacation homes, looked me directly in the eyes and refused to obey.
For the first time in my life, I couldn't threaten, negotiate, or purchase my way to an answer.
My gaze returned to the little blue hat.
“Was he suffering?”
Naomi's face softened.
“Your son was stillborn, Mr. Vance. He didn't experience the life you had imagined for him.”
I swallowed.
“Did Meline hold him?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“As long as she wanted.”
I closed my eyes.
The image struck me with unbearable force.
My wife, exhausted and devastated, lying in a hospital bed while holding our lifeless son.
And beside her, an empty chair.
The chair where I should have been sitting.
“Was she alone?”
Naomi hesitated.
“Her mother came as soon as she could. But during the delivery, yes. Your wife kept asking whether anyone had reached you.”
My knees weakened.
I lowered myself into the chair beside the bed.
It was cold.
I wondered whether Meline had spent six days staring at that same chair, waiting for me to appear.
“Why didn't anyone send someone to find me?”
Naomi remained silent for a moment.
“Your office was contacted. Your emergency number was called. We left messages requesting an immediate response.”
“I didn't know.”
The words sounded pathetic even to me.
Naomi looked toward the smartphone lying beside my hand.
“Your phone was working, Mr. Vance.”
I had no answer.
Because she was right.
I had simply chosen not to listen.
Six days earlier, when Meline whispered that something was wrong with our baby, I had been standing in the doorway of our townhouse.
Her hand was pressed against her stomach.
Her face had turned frighteningly pale.
“Damen, please.”
I remembered looking at my watch.
“Elena is waiting for me.”
“I'm in pain.”
“Then call Dr. Harper.”
“I don't think I can stand.”
I should have turned around.
I should have taken three steps back into that dining room.
Instead, I said something I would regret for the rest of my life.
“Meline, I can't keep dropping everything every time you're worried.”
Her expression changed.
Not into anger.
Into something much worse.
Disbelief.
As though she had just discovered that the man she'd married was a stranger.
Then her knees buckled slightly.
She caught the table with both hands.
I saw it.
I saw how frightened she was.
And I walked away anyway.
Outside, my driver opened the rear door of my black Mercedes.
“Midtown Pavilion Hospital, sir?”
“Yes. Quickly.”
As the car pulled away, my phone vibrated.
Meline.
I rejected the call.
Thirty seconds later, she called again.
I turned the phone facedown.
I told myself she was trying to make me feel guilty.
I told myself she had excellent medical care.
I told myself I would call her tomorrow.
What I didn't know was that approximately twenty minutes after I left, our house manager, Carmen Alvarez, would find Meline collapsed near the dining table.
Carmen would call an ambulance.
And while I was rushing toward Elena's hospital room, paramedics would be struggling to stabilize my pregnant wife.
Back in the present, I looked up at Naomi.
“Who brought her here?”
“A woman named Carmen Alvarez accompanied the ambulance.”
I covered my mouth.
Carmen.
She had worked in our household for almost twelve years.
She had celebrated our wedding.
She had watched Meline decorate the nursery.
And she had been there when I wasn't.
“Did Carmen call me?”
Naomi nodded.
“Several times.”
I remembered seeing her name on my screen.
I'd ignored those calls too.
My chest tightened until breathing became painful.
“Can I see his medical records?”
“You'll need to speak with the hospital's records department about what you're authorized to access.”
“Can I speak with Dr. Harper?”
“I can ask whether she's available.”
Naomi stepped toward the doorway.
Then she stopped.
“Mr. Vance?”
“Yes?”
“Your wife asked me to tell you something if you ever came looking for her.”
I stood immediately.
“What?”
Naomi looked at the empty hospital bed.
“She said that when your son was delivered, the room was completely silent.”
I felt the blood drain from my face.
“She said she'd spent months imagining his first cry.”
Naomi paused.
“Instead, all she heard was the medical team working, and then someone telling her they were sorry.”
My throat closed.
“She asked us to bring him to her anyway.”
I couldn't speak.
Naomi continued softly.
“She told him about the nursery. About the little stuffed elephant she bought. About the father she had hoped would love him.”
A tear slid down my cheek.
“She told him she was sorry she couldn't protect him.”
“No…”
“And then she kissed his forehead.”
I bent forward, gripping the edges of the chair.
Something inside me was breaking in a way I had never experienced.
Naomi waited until I could breathe again.
Then she reached into a drawer.
“Your wife left one more envelope.”
I looked up.
“She specifically asked that you receive it after reading her first letter.”
Naomi handed me a cream-colored envelope.
Across the front, in Meline's beautiful handwriting, were five words.
May you like
BEFORE YOU BLAME ANYONE ELSE.
And when I opened it, the first sentence made me realize that Meline had known exactly what kind of man I would become when confronted with the consequences of my choices.
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