At my daughter Chloe's welcome party, my husband Griffin's "best friend," Rachel, publicly humiliated me.

"Hey, Willow. I hear having a baby makes women lose their edge—in the bedroom and the boardroom," Rachel said, raising her glass with a smirk.

"Griffin, you better find a woman who can keep up. A real man needs someone who can dominate in the boardroom and the bedroom."

Griffin gave her a playful glare. "That's enough out of you, Rach."

Then he turned to me with a casual shrug. "That's just Rachel. Total tomboy, you know? We grew up together. She has no filter."

Rachel tossed her hair, her lips forming a pout. "Oh, lighten up, Willow. Don't be so sensitive. Honestly, I'm a little jealous."

"I mean, look at me. Just closed that massive Miami deal. I was up all night with the client... and I mean all night. I just wonder who'll be lucky enough to tame me someday."

She shot Griffin a sultry look, winking.

"You've had a little taste before, haven't you?"

The room fell silent. Every eye darted toward me, alight with barely concealed curiosity.

I smiled, set down my champagne flute, and met Rachel's gaze with feigned concern.

"That's funny. Because I recall cleaning up your mess on that Miami deal. I don't remember you being quite so...'capable.' Or were you too busy on your back 'entertaining' clients to notice?"

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1

Amid the stunned silence, someone finally snorted with laughter.

"Damn, Willow's got claws! First time I've ever seen anyone shut Rachel up!"

Others chimed in, the jokes a clumsy attempt to diffuse the tension.

Griffin seized the moment, wrapping an arm around my waist. He whispered in my ear, "Rachel doesn't have a filter, you know that. Why'd you have to be so harsh?"

Then he turned to Rachel, his voice softening with affection. "See? That's what you get for running your mouth. Willow just put you in your place. Now, go on and apologize."

Rachel bit back her resentment, forcing a smile as she raised her glass to me.

"Alright, alright, you win. Sharp tongue on you, Willow."

"I guess I got carried away. I grew up with these Wall Street guys, you know? We don't pull our punches. No hard feelings?"

One of Griffin's friends quickly jumped in. "Exactly! Willow, you're a master negotiator—don't stoop to this tomboy's level."

"She's basically one of the guys, just with a bra! Ha!"

Another wave of laughter rippled through the table. Rachel played along, puffing out her chest. "Oh, please. With my numbers and this body? You guys definitely got the better end of that deal."

She turned to me. "So, Willow? My track record, this body... you have to admit, it's a killer combination, right?"

Griffin muttered, "That's enough."

I watched her preen, knowing every one of her so-called triumphs was a disaster I'd had to salvage. A corner of my mouth twitched. Ten trips to the plastic surgeon, and she calls it 'natural'? Killer combination? Of course. I'd practically built her career, and God knows who'd paid for the body.

I spoke again, my professional tone cutting through the noise.

"Rachel, if you're as 'capable' as you say, I suggest you take another look at the profit margins from the Miami project."

"That deal nearly cost the company thirty million dollars. I'd strongly advise you spend less time boasting about your 'performance'—in any capacity—and more time conducting a thorough post-mortem."

My voice was just loud enough for the neighboring tables to turn their heads.

Griffin shot to his feet.

"Willow. Outside. Now."

The heavy wooden door shut out the party's clamor, plunging us into the relative quiet of the hallway.

Griffin yanked at his tie.

"What the hell is wrong with you? Why did you have to call her out like that in front of everyone? You humiliated her!"

I rubbed my wrist, already reddening from his grip.

"At our daughter's welcome party, she's the one bragging about your 'war stories' together. She crossed the line, not me."

A flicker of guilt crossed his face.

"I knew it. You're still pissed about the other night. We were at the bar, playing truth or dare after a client meeting. We're business partners, we talk about work. It's not what you think."

I let out a cold laugh. "You're a hypocrite, Griffin."

His eyes hardened, his jaw tight.

"Do you have to be so goddamn critical?"

"Rachel was right. You have gotten sensitive and paranoid since the baby. That's all she meant."

The words were a slap in the face. Before I could retaliate, a sharp, piercing cry erupted from the living room.

I shoved past Griffin and ran.

When I burst through the door and saw the scene, my blood ran cold.

Rachel stood there, holding Chloe in one arm and a jar of peanut butter in the other, dipping her finger in and forcing it into my baby's mouth.

"Here you go, sweetie! Try some of this yummy stuff!"

"You have to build up their immunity young!"

Griffin's friends were cheering, egging her on.

Brown, sticky peanut butter was smeared all around my daughter's mouth as she wailed. The paste made her gag, her cries turning into terrified, hoarse shrieks. Her tiny limbs flailed inside her swaddle, her face flushing a deep, alarming red as her breathing grew ragged.

Rachel just laughed, tightening her grip on the baby while dipping her finger for more.

"What are you doing!?"

I slapped her hand with all my strength.

The jar of peanut butter flew from her grasp and shattered on the floor.

I snatched Chloe into my arms. She coughed and choked against my shoulder.

"Shh, baby, Mama's here..."

I patted her back, my fingers brushing her little face—it was hot and blotchy, the start of an allergic reaction.

Griffin came in just in time to see me rip the baby from Rachel's arms, sending Rachel stumbling back.

His first instinct was to rush to Rachel. He grabbed her arm, pulling her to her feet as he yelled at me.

"Willow, what the hell is wrong with you? Why did you attack her?"

He didn't spare a single glance for our daughter, who was gasping for breath.

I held Chloe tight, my gaze like ice.

"Griffin, why don't you ask your friend what she was just doing?"

"Feeding peanut butter to a three-month-old. Our family has a history of severe allergies! She could have killed her!"

Griffin froze. His eyes swept over the shattered jar, his expression faltering for a moment.

But Rachel was already rubbing her arm, her face a mask of wronged innocence.

"Willow, relax. I had allergies as a kid, my mom even used desensitization therapy. It's not a big deal."

"It makes them tougher! I was just trying to build up her resistance!"

Rage trembled through me. I pulled out my phone. "Hello, 911? I need to report—"

He slapped the phone from my hand, and it clattered to the ground. Griffin stood panting, his chest heaving.

"You're going to call the cops? On a day like today, you want to ruin everything for everyone?"

"Fine, she was wrong, but she didn't mean any harm. Do you have to blow everything out of proportion?"

I looked at him as if he were a stranger.

"Griffin," my voice was hollow, even to my own ears. "This is our daughter. You're an educated man—you know what a severe allergic reaction can do to a baby."

"What's going on here?" Griffin's parents pushed through the crowd, their faces grim.

"It was a perfectly lovely party until you had to cause a scene. What an embarrassment!"

I pointed to the peanut butter on the floor. "Rachel fed Chloe peanut butter. I'm taking her to the hospital."

"Peanut butter?" Griffin's father, Harrison, scoffed.

"You're making a fuss over that? When Griffin was a baby, his grandfather gave him tastes of everything to build up his tolerance. He turned out just fine!"

Griffin's mother, Eleanor, jabbed a finger in my face.

"She's fine! What's the big deal? A little peanut butter won't kill her!"

"Rachel is a good girl, we've known her since she was a child. Don't you dare blame her!"

I looked at Griffin's silence, at his parents twisting reality, at Rachel standing off to the side with a triumphant little smirk.

A wave of nausea washed over me.

I took a deep breath and turned for the door.

Griffin called out, "Where are you going?"

"To the hospital." I didn't look back. "And if there's anything wrong with her, Rachel, I swear to God, this isn't over."

Thank God—Chloe had barely ingested any. But she was still terrified and fussy.

My friend Romeo put down his stethoscope, breathing a sigh of relief.

"What happened? I thought today was Chloe's welcome party."

When I didn't answer, he didn't push. He just picked up a small pink box from his desk and handed it to me.

"I had an important meeting and couldn't make it." His voice was warm. "This is for Chloe."

While I sat with the baby in the observation room, a text from Griffin lit up my phone: How is she? My parents said you were overreacting, running to the ER over nothing.

I didn't reply. I just turned off my phone.

At one in the morning, I walked into our silent home, holding Chloe.

Standing in the middle of my living room was Rachel, wearing my favorite silk robe.

She saw me and let out an exaggerated gasp. "Oh!"

"You're back! I didn't pack a change of clothes, so Griffin let me borrow yours. You don't mind, do you?"

"Where's Griffin?"

I ignored the way she let the robe slide deliberately off one shoulder.

Rachel pouted, then unplugged my phone charger from the wall and plugged in her own phone, wandering the room like she owned it.

"He's in the study, on a call with an overseas client. You look exhausted, Willow. Give me the baby. I can help take care of her from now on."

I sidestepped her outstretched arms. "No, thank you."

Griffin emerged from the study just then, his face darkening when he saw me recoil from her.

"What did the doctor say?"

I placed Chloe on the sofa and gently checked her hands and feet.

"A mild allergic reaction. She's shaken. The doctor said to watch her closely."

Griffin's relief was palpable.

"See? I told you she'd be fine. You had to make such a scene—"

I ignored him, my eyes scanning the room. "Where's Mrs. Davis?"

She was the professional maternity nurse I had hired.

Griffin hesitated. "I let her go."

"Rachel loves kids. I thought she could help out. It's better to have family around than to pay a stranger."

Rachel glided over, pulling the robe tighter.

"Don't worry, Willow. I'm great with kids. You two focus on work. Leave everything to me."

Seeing my stony expression, she chuckled. "Oh, right, today was my fault. Let me make it up to you!"

She grabbed a half-empty bottle of wine from the coffee table and pretended to chug it.

Griffin snatched it away. "Come on, you can't hold your liquor."

His tone was scolding, but his eyes softened as he looked at her.

Watching them, I picked up my daughter and headed for the door.

It took Griffin a second to react, but he moved to block my path.

"Where are you going in the middle of the night? Can you stop being so unreasonable?"

"Unreasonable?" I laughed, a sharp, humorless sound.

"Your 'best friend' is wearing my robe, using my charger, and about to get drunk while supposedly looking after my daughter."

"Griffin, who's being unreasonable here?"

Rachel tossed her hair. "Wow, possessive much? I was just making myself at home. Griffin, your wife clearly has it out for me. Maybe I should just leave."

"Enough!" Griffin raked a hand through his hair.

"Willow, she got a talking-to, she apologized—can we please just drop it?"

He glanced at the baby in my arms, his voice softening. "Don't make Chloe suffer because of this."

I said nothing. Chloe was still running a low-grade fever. I couldn't take her out into the night.

"I want Mrs. Davis back here tomorrow morning."

"Fine, fine! Whatever you want."

I took Chloe to the guest room. Mrs. Davis's supplies were still there.

Through the door, I could hear Griffin and Rachel talking and laughing in the living room until well past midnight. He never once came to check on Chloe, even when she woke up crying.

As dawn broke, I dragged myself out of bed for the fourth time to take Chloe's temperature.

That's when I heard giggling from the master bedroom. "Oh my god, look how dorky you were back then!"

The two of them were huddled together, heads touching, looking at my tablet.

It was the digital pregnancy album I'd made.

Griffin had once pointed to the first page, whispering in my ear, "When she's old enough, we'll show her this and tell her our love story."

Now, on that very page, my face in our wedding photo had been crudely scribbled over with a pig's head, two large X's drawn over my eyes.

And on Chloe's first ultrasound image, scrawled in red, were two words: GET OUT.

"What are you doing?"

Rachel jumped, her finger slipping on the screen.

"Oh! You're awake? I thought this album was cute, so… I added a little creative touch."

Seeing my expression, she shrugged. "Sorry? Here, I'll fix it."

She jabbed at the screen, and her frantic swipes only glitched the image further before it vanished.

"Give it back!"

I lunged for the tablet. She dodged, and her wrist slammed into the corner of the nightstand with a sharp cry of pain.

"Willow, what the hell is wrong with you?!"

Griffin shot forward and shoved me, hard.

I staggered back, my lower back cracking against the glass coffee table. I threw out a hand to catch myself, but the sharp corner of the table sliced deep into my forearm. Blood instantly beaded on the surface.

He didn't even look at me. He knelt to help Rachel, pulling her into his arms, his voice tight with concern.

"Rachel, are you okay?"

Rachel cradled her wrist, wincing. "Damn, Willow, you're strong..."

Griffin swept her into his arms. She let out a small shriek and buried her face in his neck.

"I'm taking Rachel to the hospital. Willow—you went too far."

Only after the front door slammed shut did I feel the wetness on my arm. I looked down at a long, deep gash, the skin split open.

Blood dripped onto the carpet. I felt nothing but a hollow, dull ache.

I called Mrs. Davis and told her I was going to the hospital, asking her to be there in five minutes.