Chapter 2 - The Mask of Submission
"I’m sending a car for you right now," Maya said, her voice crackling with fury through the speaker. "Pack Leo’s things. I will meet you at the emergency clinic, and then you’re coming to stay at my place in the Hamptons. We can file an emergency restraining order by noon."
"No," I replied, standing up with agonizing slowness.
Every muscle in my core screamed in protest as I moved. I pressed my palm hard against my incision, holding the wound together through sheer will. My legs shook, but I forced my feet onto the hardwood floor.
"Ivy, are you insane?" Maya hissed. "You just told me she threw a pitcher of freezing water onto a ten-day-old surgical wound! That is domestic assault. If that incision opens, you could become septic. You could die."
"I know the risks, Maya," I said, peeling the soaked camisole away from my skin. The surgical dressing was completely sodden, and a faint, pinkish fluid was leaking from the edges. "I’m going to clean the wound, apply an antibiotic barrier, and wrap it with fresh compression bandages. But if I run away to your house, they will play the victims. Wade will claim I had postpartum psychosis. He’ll tell the court I abandoned the marital home with our infant son. He’ll try to drag this into a two-year custody battle and drain my resources while living in my home."
"Then what do you want to do?"
"I want them completely ruined," I said, staring at my reflection in the full-length vanity mirror.
The woman looking back at me was pale, with dark circles bruised under her eyes, her damp hair clinging to her cheeks. But behind those tired eyes, the architect was back. The strategist who built a multi-million-dollar empire before the age of thirty was wide awake.
"I need three days, Maya," I continued, opening my closet and pulling out a dry, high-waisted linen loungewear set. "I need you to pull every bank statement from our joint household account for the past thirty-six months. I want an audit of every penny Wade has spent. I also need you to contact Frank Miller."
"Frank? The private investigator who worked your corporate espionage case against the Henderson Group?"
"Yes. I want Frank to pull Wade’s work calendar, his corporate expense accounts, and his personal cell phone records. I know my husband. Wade’s cruelty didn't materialize overnight. He’s been emboldened by something. He’s acting like a man who thinks he’s completely invincible, which means he’s hiding something big."
"Consider it done," Maya said, her breath steadying as her legal instincts took over. "What about the deed?"
"Bring me certified physical copies of the deed, the prenuptial agreement, and the original purchase contract. Keep the originals in your firm's fireproof safe. And Maya?"
"Yeah?"
"Get an eviction attorney on standby. I don't want a standard thirty-day notice. I want an immediate writ of possession for non-tenants committing felony domestic violence on private property."
"Now you’re speaking my language," Maya said, a dangerous edge in her tone. "Be careful, Ivy. Don't push your body too far."
"I won't. I'll call you tonight."
I hung up, stripped off the wet gauze, and inspected the wound. The skin was angry and inflamed, but the deep internal sutures were still holding. I cleaned the area thoroughly with iodine, applied a heavy layer of prescription antibacterial ointment, and bound my torso tightly with a medical-grade compression wrap. The tight pressure brought a wave of relief, steadying my core.
I picked up Leo, who had finally fallen back asleep, tucked him into a warm, dry fleece swaddle, and placed him in the portable crib inside the nursery, locking the nursery door behind me with my biometric thumbprint. Roberta and Wade didn't have access to that room.
Then, I walked out into the kitchen.
The penthouse was blindingly bright. Sunlight poured through the double-height glass windows, illuminating the sprawling open-concept living area. Roberta was lounging on my $14,000 custom Italian sectional, flipping through a design magazine while her bare feet rested directly on the pristine white bouclé fabric.
Wade was standing by the kitchen island, sipping espresso from one of my handcrafted ceramic mugs, typing away on his phone.
"Look who finally decided to join the living," Roberta remarked without looking up from her magazine. "I hope the water wasn't too cold, Ivy. Just wanted to make sure you were properly awake. A woman’s place is taking care of her household, not lying in bed like an invalid."
I walked behind the island, careful to keep my steps slow, deliberate, and quiet. I kept my head down, letting my hair fall forward to hide my face.
"I'm sorry, Roberta," I said softly, playing the exact role they expected: the beaten, submissive wife. "You're right. I’ve been overwhelmed. I’ll make your eggs now."
Wade glanced up from his phone, a smirk of pure satisfaction playing on his face. He loved this. He loved seeing me broken. For years, my success had cast a shadow over his mediocre career as an associate vice president at a mid-tier logistics firm. He had constantly made subtle, passive-aggressive digs about my wealth, masking his deep-seated inferiority complex behind jokes. But now, with a newborn tying me down and surgical wounds weakening my body, he finally felt like the master of the house.
"That’s better," Wade said, tapping his empty mug against the marble. "Get me a refill while you're at it, Ivy. And make it quick. Mom and I were talking—my sister Chloe is having a rough time with her landlord. Her lease is up at the end of the month, and she doesn't have the deposit for a new place."
I cracked two eggs into a nonstick pan, the butter sizzling softly. "Oh? What happened to her apartment?"
"Her landlord is an unreasonable jerk," Roberta chimed in, tossing the magazine onto the coffee table. "Expecting rent on the first of the month when she’s a single mother trying to raise two boys! Disgraceful. Anyway, I told Wade that Chloe and the kids are moving in here next week."
My hand paused for a fraction of a second above the stove, but I kept my composure.
Chloe was thirty-two years old, had never held a job for more than three consecutive months, and had raised two undisciplined boys who treated every home they entered like a demolition zone.
"Moving in here?" I asked mildly, turning the eggs with a spatula. "Into the penthouse?"
"Of course," Wade said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "We have four bedrooms and four thousand square feet. You and I only need the master suite, and Leo has his nursery. The guest room and the home office are just sitting there being wasted. Mom is taking the guest suite permanently, and Chloe can have your office. You don't need an office anymore anyway—you’re a mother now. You should be focusing on the family."
"My office contains all my firm's blueprints and historical project archives," I said, placing the toasted sourdough on a warmed plate and sliding the eggs beside it.
"Well, you can pack them into boxes and shove them in the basement storage unit," Roberta said, marching over to the island and pulling the plate toward herself without a word of thanks. "Family comes first, Ivy. My son worked hard to give you this life. The least you can do is open his home to his own flesh and blood."
"Of course," I said, lowering my eyes. "Family is very important."
Wade smiled, clearly pleased by my total lack of resistance. He reached out and patted my cheek—a condescending, patronizing gesture that made my skin crawl.
"Good girl," he murmured. "I’m glad you’re finally seeing reason. Oh, and by the way, I need you to sign some paperwork later this afternoon."
I poured hot water into the espresso machine, keeping my back turned toward him. "What paperwork?"
"Just standard administrative stuff," Wade said casually, but I caught the slight shift in his cadence—the subtle tension that always entered his voice when he was lying. "Since you’re going to be on maternity leave for the foreseeable future, it doesn't make sense for all the household utility accounts and the building management communications to be bottlenecked through you. I’m having my attorney draw up a limited Power of Attorney and a quitclaim deed to add my name to the condo title. That way, I can handle the HOA meetings and deal with maintenance without bugging you while you rest."
A quitclaim deed.
He wanted to slide his name onto the title of a $2.8 million property with zero mortgage, turning my sole separate property into community property before I even healed from childbearing.
"I see," I whispered, setting his fresh espresso in front of him. "A quitclaim deed."
"Yeah. Just to streamline things," Wade said, taking a sip and flashing his brightest, most charming corporate smile. "It’s what normal married couples do, Ivy. We’re a team now. Isn't that right?"
I looked into the eyes of the man who had watched his mother douse me in ice water less than an hour ago.
May you like
"Yes, Wade," I said softly, my voice dripping with deceptive honey. "We’re a team. Bring the papers home tonight. I’ll make sure everything is... properly settled."
***
