Chapter 3 - The Woman Who Needed Me More“YOU LET ME STAY BESIDE YOU FOR SIX DAYS WHILE MY WIFE WAS LOSING OUR CHILD?”
Elena Courtland stared at me across the living room of her luxurious Manhattan apartment.
For the first time since I'd known her, she looked frightened of me.
“Damen, lower your voice.”
I stood near the doorway, still wearing the same charcoal-gray suit I'd worn to the hospital.
My tie hung loose.
My eyes burned from crying.
And inside my jacket pocket was Oliver's tiny blue hat.
“Answer me, Elena.”
She slowly placed her wineglass on the marble coffee table.
“I don't understand what's happening.”
“My son is dead.”
The words fell between us.
Elena's face changed.
For a moment, she looked genuinely stunned.
“What?”
“My son died Tuesday morning.”
She raised one hand to her mouth.
“Oh my God.”
“Meline nearly died too.”
“Damen, I had no idea.”
I studied her face.
Eight months.
For eight months, I'd allowed this woman to occupy a place in my life that should have belonged to my wife.
It had started with business dinners.
Elena was a corporate communications consultant who worked closely with several members of my executive team.
She was clever, ambitious, and unusually skilled at making powerful people feel indispensable.
She laughed at my jokes.
Praised my decisions.
Listened to my complaints about the company.
And whenever Meline questioned our closeness, I dismissed her.
I had told myself Elena simply understood the pressures of my position.
But what had actually happened was less complicated.
Elena admired the version of me that loved being admired.
Meline knew the version that left wet towels on the bathroom floor, forgot anniversaries, and sometimes woke in the middle of the night afraid that everything he'd built would collapse.
Meline loved the man.
Elena loved the importance surrounding him.
And I had been arrogant enough to mistake admiration for intimacy.
“You told me you were bleeding,” I said.
“I was.”
“I know you received treatment. I'm not questioning that.”
“Then what are you accusing me of?”
“You were discharged Wednesday. Why did you keep telling me you needed me beside you?”
Elena looked away.
“I was scared.”
“For four more days?”
“I didn't want to be alone.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Neither did my wife.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Damen, you chose to stay.”
The words silenced me.
Because they were true.
Elena hadn't physically restrained me.
She hadn't taken my phone.
She hadn't prevented me from checking my messages.
I had chosen her comfort over my wife's safety.
And I had kept making that choice.
Every morning.
Every afternoon.
Every night.
I moved toward the window.
Below us, Manhattan traffic flowed through the streets as though nothing had changed.
Somewhere in this enormous city, people were holding their newborn babies.
Somewhere, fathers were complaining about sleepless nights.
Somewhere, a tiny boy was laughing in his crib.
And my son would never experience any of those things.
“Did you see the calls?” I asked.
Elena hesitated.
“What calls?”
“The ones from St. Catherine's.”
She crossed her arms.
“Your phone was ringing constantly.”
“Did you know they were from the hospital?”
“Sometimes.”
I turned.
“And you never thought to tell me to answer?”
“You said Meline was upset with you.”
“She was seven months pregnant.”
“I know that.”
“She told me something was wrong before I left!”
Elena's expression changed.
“Then why did you leave?”
The question struck me harder than anything else she could have said.
I had no defense.
I wanted to blame Elena.
I wanted to believe she'd manipulated me into abandoning my family.
And perhaps, in smaller ways, she had enjoyed keeping my attention.
But Elena hadn't made the most important decision.
I had.
I looked at her.
“Did you know I was married when this started?”
“Of course.”
“Did you know Meline was pregnant?”
“Yes.”
“Then why did you keep calling me late at night?”
Elena's eyes filled with tears.
“Because I thought you wanted to be with me.”
I stared at her.
She was right about that too.
I'd encouraged it.
I'd made promises.
I'd crossed boundaries.
I'd kissed her in a hotel elevator during a business trip to Chicago.
I'd held her hand beneath restaurant tables.
I'd pretended that emotional betrayal somehow didn't count because I still went home to my wife.
Now I understood how dishonest I'd been.
“This ends today,” I said.
Elena blinked.
“Damen…”
“No more dinners. No more personal calls. No more pretending this is something harmless.”
“You can't just erase eight months.”
“I can't erase what I did to my wife either.”
She looked toward the floor.
For a moment, I thought she might apologize.
Instead, she asked, “What about my consulting contract?”
I stared at her.
Our son had died.
My marriage was destroyed.
And she was thinking about her contract.
“You'll deal with Maren and our legal department,” I said. “I won't interfere with the contractual process.”
Then I walked out.
I didn't slam the door.
I didn't insult her.
I simply left.
Because the truth had finally become impossible to avoid.
Elena wasn't responsible for making me a selfish husband.
She had merely provided an audience for the selfishness I already possessed.
That afternoon, I returned to our Upper East Side townhouse.
The silence inside was unbearable.
Carmen had cleaned the dining room.
The chairs were neatly arranged.
The table where Meline had collapsed had been polished until it shone.
I stood beside it, staring at the floor.
“Carmen?”
She appeared from the hallway.
“Yes, Mr. Vance?”
“Where did you find her?”
Carmen pointed to a spot near the corner of the dining table.
“There.”
I looked down.
“She was on the floor when I came back from the kitchen.”
“What happened?”
“Mrs. Vance was trying to reach her phone.”
My chest tightened.
“She couldn't stand. She kept saying the baby wasn't moving the way he should.”
I closed my eyes.
“Did she fall?”
“She had fallen against the edge of the table before I found her. She was conscious, but she was in terrible pain.”
I slowly crouched beside the spot.
For the first time, I tried to imagine what it must have felt like to be Meline.
Seven months pregnant.
Terrified.
Unable to reach her husband.
Trying to save the child she already loved more than her own life.
“Carmen, why did she stay with me?”
The older woman looked confused.
“Sir?”
“Why did Meline stay with me when I treated her like this?”
Carmen's expression softened.
“Because she remembered who you were before you became this man.”
I looked up.
“What man?”
“The man who stopped noticing when the people around him were hurting.”
I didn't argue.
There was nothing to argue about.
That evening, I climbed the stairs to the nursery.
The door was slightly open.
Inside, everything was exactly as Meline had arranged it.
A white wooden crib stood beneath a painted mural of pale blue clouds.
A stuffed elephant rested on a rocking chair.
Tiny clothes hung inside a small wardrobe.
And above the crib, a delicate mobile of silver stars waited for a baby who would never sleep beneath it.
I stepped inside.
On the rocking chair lay a notebook.
Meline's pregnancy journal.
I opened it carefully.
The early pages contained ordinary memories.
Today we heard his heartbeat.
Today he kicked when I played music.
Today I bought his first blanket.
Then the entries changed.
Damen missed another appointment.
He promised we'd choose a stroller together. He forgot.
I think Elena knows more about my husband's life than I do.
I turned another page.
There was a folded medical report tucked between the sheets.
Across the top was the name of my company.
VANCE MEDICAL INNOVATIONS — LIGHTHOUSE MATERNAL MONITORING SYSTEM.
Below it, a highlighted sentence caught my attention.
Patient concern classified as routine. No immediate escalation required.
I frowned.
Meline had written something beneath it.
May you like
I told them something was wrong. Why won't anyone listen?
And for the first time, I realized that my wife's nightmare might have begun long before the night I abandoned her.
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