2. Christine
— ? —
Christine
Braxton Hicks.
That’s what the on-call doctor said when I finally broke down and called the hospital instead of my husband.
One in the morning, sitting on the bathroom floor in a twelve-thousand-square-foot penthouse, describing my symptoms to a stranger because the man who put this baby inside me couldn’t be bothered to pick up his phone.
“Drink water,” she said, her voice professionally soothing. “Lie on your left side. Call us back if they start coming regular, or if your waters break, or if anything frightens you.” A pause. “Is there someone with you tonight?”
I said yes. It was easier than the other answer.
I had already called my husband. Ten minutes after I put the phone down in that bathroom, after I’d told myself there was no point, I gave in and called him.
Four times. Voicemail, voicemail, voicemail, then nothing.
The fourth call didn’t even ring, just that mechanical voice telling me the mailbox was full, please try again later.
Later.
Everything with Benedict is later.
I found out at nine the next morning that my emergency had been acknowledged - not by him, but by his assistant, a woman I’ve never met face-to-face, who texted me with the casual efficiency of someone checking items off a list: Hi Christine, everything okay?
Mr. Morgan was in meetings all night but wanted me to check in.
That’s how I learned that even my emergencies get routed through staff.
So I don’t mention it when he finally calls. Two sentences, squeezed between the Budapest deal and whatever fire needs putting out next. “How are you feeling?” and “I’ll be home soon,” both delivered in that distracted tone that means he’s reading emails while he talks to me.
“Fine,” I said.
I don’t know why I expected a different response.
***
The dress still fits.
Barely. It’s a Valentino, deep blue, designed to accommodate a belly that wasn’t supposed to be this big yet. The fabric stretches across places it wasn’t meant to stretch, and I spend twenty minutes in front of the mirror trying to decide if I look elegant or ridiculous.
Does it matter? He won’t notice either way.
I go to the gala alone. Again.
The B-Morgan Foundation’s annual event, a glittering celebration of philanthropy that exists primarily so billionaires can pat themselves on the back for writing checks.
I’ve attended every year since we got married - first as the blushing new bride, then as the gracious hostess, and now as the pregnant wife who smiles through whispers and pretends not to hear the pity in everyone’s voices.
Benedict was supposed to escort me. His jet landed three hours ago - I know because I checked the flight tracker, because somewhere along the way I became the kind of wife who monitors her husband’s movements like a private investigator.
He went straight to the office. Emergency board meeting.
There’s always an emergency.
I arrive in the town car he arranged (through his assistant, of course - he’s very good at delegating the appearance of care) and step onto the red carpet with my spine straight and my smile fixed firmly in place.
Cameras flash. People call my name. I am Christine Morgan, wife of Benedict Morgan, mother-to-be, and I am glowing.
That’s what the tabloids will say tomorrow. Glowing.
They won’t mention that the glow is sweat, that my feet are swelling inside these heels, that I had to stop twice on the walk from the car to the doors just to catch my breath.
Inside, the ballroom dazzles. Crystal chandeliers - same as the first night I met him, though the venue is different. Women in gowns that cost more than most people’s salaries. Men in suits worth more than my parents’ house.
And me, the invisible wife, drifting through it all like a ghost.
The whispers start before I’ve made it past the champagne table.
“Poor thing. Always alone at these things.”
“He’s always working. Such a dedicated man.”
“I heard he hasn’t been home in weeks. My husband saw him leaving the office at midnight-”
“Did you see who picked him up from the airport? That blonde VP…”
I keep my smile. I keep my shoulders back. I do not acknowledge that I can hear every word, that they want me to hear every word, that watching Christine Morgan crumble is apparently the entertainment for the evening.
I will not crumble.
Not here. Not in front of them.
“Christine!”
The voice cuts through the noise like a knife - bright, sweet, poisonous. I know who it is before I turn around. I know, and I turn anyway, because running would be worse.
Pauline Hartley materializes from the crowd like she was waiting for exactly this moment.
Benedict’s VP of Operations. Sleek and polished, wearing a dress that probably cost a fraction of mine but somehow looks ten times better.
Her hair is perfect. Her makeup is flawless.
She looks like she’s never had a Braxton Hicks contraction in her life.
“You look…” She pauses, and the pause is the cruelest part. “Tired. Pregnancy must be so hard without support.”
Without support. Like she knows. Like she’s been counting the nights he hasn’t come home, the same way I have.
“I’m managing.” My voice comes out steadier than I expected. “Thank you for your concern.”
“Of course. You know I’m always thinking of you.” She air-kisses my cheek, close enough that I can smell her perfume - jasmine, sharp and sweet, nothing like the vanilla I wear. “Don’t worry about Benedict. I’m taking excellent care of him.”
Something cold slides down my spine.
“Making sure he eats,” she continues, ticking items off on manicured fingers. “Making sure he sleeps. You know how he is - he’ll work himself to death if someone isn’t watching out for him.” Her smile sharpens. “Everything a wife should do.”
The words land exactly where she meant them to.
Everything a wife should do.
I could crumble. I could feel the sting of that, the implication, the accusation. I could wonder what else she’s doing for my husband that a wife should do, could let the doubt creep in, could give her exactly what she wants.
Instead, I smile.
“How generous of you,” I say, “to handle the tasks he pays you for.”
Her smile flickers. Just for a second, just a crack in the polished veneer, but I see it.
I savor it.
“Well.” She recovers quickly, I’ll give her that. “I should mingle. So many important people to see. Give my best to Benedict when he arrives. If he arrives.”
She glides away, leaving her jasmine perfume and her implications behind like landmines.
I stand very still and breathe.
In. Out. In. Out.
The baby kicks - hard, right under my ribs - and I press my hand to the spot, rubbing small circles until she settles. “I know,” I whisper. “I know, sweetheart. Mommy doesn’t like her either.”
***
He arrives two hours late.
I’ve been standing in the same corner for most of that time, nursing sparkling water that I pretend is champagne, watching the entrance like a fool. Like a wife. Like the kind of woman I swore I’d never become.
When he finally appears, something in my chest cracks.
He looks terrible. Beautiful and terrible, the way he always looks these days - shadows under his eyes, tension in his jaw, exhaustion carved into every line of his face.
His suit is immaculate, because his suits are always immaculate, but underneath the perfect tailoring, I can see it: he’s falling apart.
Good, whispers a vicious part of me I didn’t know existed. Let him fall.
He crosses the room toward me, and people part for him the same way they did seven years ago. Still Moses. Still the Red Sea. Still the most powerful man in every room he enters.
He reaches me. Bends to kiss my cheek.
His lips are cool. Dry. Perfunctory.
“You look nice,” he says.
He’s not looking at me. His eyes are already scanning the room - donors to acknowledge, investors to court, hands to shake. I’m a box to check. A task completed.
“I look like I’m about to have your baby alone in a penthouse that feels like a mausoleum.”
The words come out before I can stop them. Sharper than I intended, louder than I should’ve said them here, where anyone could hear.
His jaw tightens. “Christine.”
“No, I’m sorry.” I’m not sorry. “I forgot. We’re in public. I’m supposed to smile and look glowing and pretend everything is fine.”
“Not tonight.” His voice is low, strained. “I can’t do this tonight.”
“You can’t do this any night.”
A muscle ticks in his cheek. His hand comes up like he might touch me - my shoulder, my arm, something - then drops back to his side. “We’ll talk later.”
“Will we? Because you’ve been saying that for months, and somehow later never comes.”
“I have to-”
“Go. I know.” I gesture toward the crowd, the waiting donors, the glittering obligations. “Go save the world, Benedict. Don’t let your pregnant wife keep you.”
He looks at me then. Really looks, for the first time all night. Something flickers in those dark eyes - guilt, maybe, or frustration, or the ghost of the man who used to look at me like I was everything.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
He walks away before I can respond.
Maybe that’s what sorry looks like now. A word thrown over his shoulder on the way to someone more important.
I watch him go. Watch him shake hands with a senator, smile at a donor’s wife, slip into the role of charming billionaire philanthropist like he’s putting on a coat. Easy. Natural. Like it costs him nothing.
I used to be the one he lit up for. I used to walk into a room and watch his whole face change - the polished CEO mask dropping away, something softer taking its place, something that was only for me.
Now I’m just another obligation.
Something moves in my peripheral vision. Blonde hair. A red dress that shows too much leg.
Pauline appears at Benedict’s elbow like she materialized from thin air. Her hand lands on his arm - casual, familiar, the touch of someone who’s allowed to touch him. She leans close to whisper something, her lips almost brushing his ear.
He laughs.
My heart stops.
He laughs the way he used to laugh with me. Open and warm and real, his head thrown back slightly, the tension draining from his shoulders for just a moment. She said something and it made him laugh, and he hasn’t laughed like that with me in so long I’d forgotten what it looked like.
Pauline turns.
Our eyes meet across the crowded room.
And she smiles.
Slow. Satisfied. The smile of a woman who knows she’s won something, even if the prize hasn’t been officially awarded yet.
I don’t look away. I don’t give her that.
But my hand shakes on my glass, and the baby kicks again, and somewhere deep in my chest, something that used to be hope cracks into pieces.