The air in the private recovery suite of St. Jude’s Hospital was sterile, cold, and silent, save for the rhythmic beeping of the monitors and the soft, synchronized breathing of two newborns in the plastic bassinet by the window.

I, Anna, lay in the hospital bed, feeling as though my body had been dismantled and hastily stitched back together. The C-section had been complicated; the twins had arrived early, and the recovery was brutal. My hair was matted with sweat, my face was devoid of makeup, and my hospital gown was stained with the fluids of birth and the milk of early motherhood. I felt raw, exposed, and exhausted down to my marrow.

I was waiting for my husband. I was waiting for Mark.

I expected flowers. I expected tears of joy. I expected the man I had supported for five years to walk through that door and look at our children with the same awe that was currently expanding in my chest.

The door swung open.

It wasn’t Mark alone. He walked in, bringing with him the scent of expensive sandalwood cologne and the sharp, invasive click of high heels.

Mark was dressed in a bespoke Italian suit, looking every inch the CEO of Vance Global. Behind him stood Chloe, his executive assistant. Chloe was twenty-three, radiant in a tight pencil skirt and a silk blouse, her hair a perfect cascade of blow-dried waves. She looked like a magazine cover. I looked like a train wreck.

Mark didn’t look at the bassinet. He didn’t look at the twins. His eyes landed on me, and his lip curled in a sneer of unmasked disgust.

“God,” Mark said, his voice flat. “Look at you.”

He walked to the side of the bed, maintaining a safe distance, as if my exhaustion were contagious.

“Mark?” I whispered, my throat dry. “The babies… they’re here.”