The suit was tailored months before pregnancy and slightly too sharp for a body still healing, but I wore it anyway because softness had become too easy for other people to misread around me. I pinned my hair back, covered the dark crescents under my eyes, and fastened the small diamond studs my grandmother once called boardroom armor. When I looked in the mirror, I did not see the woman Ryan shoved toward a service exit the night before.
I saw Eleanor Hart Vale.
Ryan’s wife had always been “Elle” to him. Easier. Smaller. Decorative in a quiet, serviceable way. But the woman on the ownership records, the holding company charters, the controlling trust, the founding capital documents, and the silent signatures approving entire divisions into existence had always been Eleanor Hart Vale, and Ryan had never once asked enough questions to connect the names. That was the kind of husband he was. Close enough to touch my body, too arrogant to learn my structure.
The twins were still sleeping when my night nanny arrived.