The champagne tasted wrong.

I stood in the corner of my own living room and watched strangers celebrate my birthday. They filled every room of the Brooklyn brownstone. They drank our wine. They laughed at jokes I couldn't hear over the music. James was supposed to be here. He was supposed to stand beside me and smile for photos and cut the cake. But his studio door had been locked since morning.

I set down my glass and slipped upstairs.

The hallway was quiet. The party noise faded behind me. I stopped outside the studio and pressed my palm against the wood. James never let me inside. He called it his sanctuary. He said artists needed private space. I believed him for years.

Tonight, the door was unlocked.

I pushed it open.

The room was full of her.

Paintings covered every wall. Dozens of them. A woman I didn't know, stretched across canvas after canvas. She was young. Beautiful. Naked. Her dark hair spilled over bare shoulders. Her eyes looked directly at the viewer—at James—with an intimacy I hadn't seen directed at me in years.

I stepped inside. My heel crunched on something. A dried paint tube. I looked down and saw more scattered across the floor. Brushes. Rags stained with flesh tones. The air smelled like linseed oil and something else. Perfume. Not mine.

I walked deeper into the room. The paintings surrounded me. Some were finished. Some were sketches. All of them were her. Reclining. Standing. Laughing. One showed her in James's button-down shirt—the blue one I gave him last Christmas—and nothing else.

My champagne glass slipped from my fingers.

It shattered on the hardwood. The sound was sharp and clean. I stared at the broken pieces and thought about how long this had been happening. How many hours James spent in this room while I was downstairs cooking dinner. How many times he kissed me goodnight and came back here to paint someone else.

I heard footsteps on the stairs.

"Amber?" James's voice carried up from the landing. "You okay?"

I didn't answer. I looked at the paintings and felt nothing. Not anger. Not sadness. Just a strange, cold clarity.

He appeared in the doorway. He saw me standing in the middle of his studio. He saw the broken glass. His face went pale.

"I can explain," he said.

I turned to look at him. "Who is she?"

He didn't answer right away. He ran his hand through his hair. He looked at the paintings like he was seeing them for the first time. "A student," he said finally. "Stormi Lopez. She's in my graduate seminar."

"How long?"

"Amber—"

"How long have you been painting her?"

He shifted his weight. "Six months. Maybe seven."

I nodded slowly. I thought about the last seven months. The late nights at the studio. The locked door. The distance between us in bed. All of it made sense now.

"Are you sleeping with her?"

James looked at the floor. That was answer enough.

I walked past him toward the door. He caught my wrist.

"Wait," he said. "Let me explain. It's not what you think. She's my muse. That's all. It's about the art."

I pulled my arm free. "Don't touch me."

"Amber, please—"

I left him standing in the studio. I went downstairs. The party was still going. Someone had put on jazz. A woman in a red dress laughed near the fireplace. I walked through the crowd toward the front door. Nobody noticed me leave.

I got in my car and drove.

The rain started before I reached the bridge. I turned on the wipers and watched the city lights blur through the windshield. I thought about calling someone. Cassidy. My father. But I didn't know what to say yet. I didn't know how to explain that my husband had been living a separate life in a locked room twenty feet from our bedroom.

I drove to Columbia.

The art institute was mostly dark. A few windows glowed on the upper floors. I parked and ran through the rain to the entrance. The security guard recognized me. He waved me through.

James's office was on the third floor. I took the stairs. My dress was soaked. My heels clicked against the tile. I turned the corner and saw light under his door.

I stopped.

Voices came from inside. Laughter. I stepped closer and looked through the gap where the door hadn't closed all the way.

James sat on the edge of his desk. A young woman stood between his knees. Dark hair. The same face from the paintings. Stormi. She wore jeans and a Columbia sweatshirt. A strawberry shortcake sat on the desk beside them—the kind James always said he hated.

She leaned forward and kissed him.

He kissed her back.

She pulled away and smiled. "Make a wish," she said.

James looked at her like she was the only person in the world. "I already have everything I want."

Stormi saw me first. Her eyes met mine through the gap in the door. Her smile widened. She looped her arm through James's and rested her head on his shoulder.

James followed her gaze. He saw me standing in the hallway. His face went white.

I turned and walked away.

Behind me, I heard him call my name. I didn't stop. I went down the stairs and out into the rain. I got in my car and sat in the parking lot with the engine running. The rain hammered against the roof.

I pulled out my phone and called Cassidy.

She answered on the second ring. "Hey, birthday girl. How's the party?"

"I need you to do something for me," I said.

"What's wrong?"

"James is having an affair."

Silence. Then: "I'm coming over."

"No. Stay home. I just need you to tell me how to document everything. I need to know what evidence I'll need."

Another pause. "Amber. Are you sure?"

I looked at the institute building. James stood in the lit doorway, searching the parking lot. Stormi appeared beside him. She put her hand on his arm.

"I'm sure," I said.

Cassidy's voice changed. It became the voice she used in courtrooms. "Okay. Here's what you do."

The Columbia forum post went live at two in the morning.

I didn't sleep after I uploaded it. I sat in the kitchen with my laptop and watched the replies multiply. Students I'd never met were sharing the thread. Someone screenshotted the ultrasound photo. Someone else recognized Stormi from James's graduate seminar. By dawn, the post had three hundred comments.

I closed the laptop and made coffee.

James came home at eight. I heard his key in the lock. His footsteps in the hall. He appeared in the kitchen doorway with his phone in his hand. His face was red.

"Did you see this?" He held up the screen. "Someone posted about Stormi on the student forum. They posted her ultrasound. They're saying I—" He stopped. His eyes narrowed. "It was you."

I poured my coffee. "Was it?"

"Who else would have access to that photo?"

I added cream. Stirred slowly. "Maybe someone from the hospital. Maybe Stormi herself. Maybe she wanted attention."

"Don't." James crossed the room. He slammed his phone on the counter. "Don't play games with me. You're trying to destroy my career."

I looked at him over the rim of my mug. "Your career?"

"The department chair already called. They're launching an investigation. Do you understand what that means? They could revoke my tenure. They could—"

"Fire you for sleeping with your student?"

His jaw tightened. "This is vindictive. This is cruel. I thought you were better than this."

I set down my coffee. "You thought I was quieter than this."

He stared at me. I stared back. I didn't raise my voice. I didn't cry. I just stood there in my kitchen and let him see exactly how calm I was.

It unsettled him. I could tell.

He grabbed his phone and left. The studio door slammed hard enough to rattle the walls.

I texted Cassidy: *He doesn't know it was me. Yet.*

Her reply came instantly: *Good. Let him sweat.*

Three days passed.

James barely spoke to me. He spent every hour in his studio or at the institute, trying to contain the damage. I heard him on the phone with his lawyer. With the department chair. With Victor Hale, his gallery dealer, who apparently wasn't returning calls.

I packed a suitcase. Not everything. Just enough.

On the fourth morning, I heard voices downstairs.

James. And someone else.

I walked to the top of the stairs and looked down.

Stormi stood in my entryway. She wore a cream sweater and jeans. Her dark hair was pulled back. She looked up and saw me. Her expression didn't change.

"Amber," James said. "We need to talk."

I came down two steps. "About what?"

"About the forum post." Stormi's voice was soft. Careful. "Someone is spreading lies about me. About us. And we think—"

"We?" I looked at James. "You brought her here?"

"She has a right to defend herself," he said.

"In my house?"

"It's my house too."

I descended another step. Stormi moved closer to the base of the stairs. James stayed near the door.

"You posted that ultrasound," Stormi said. Her voice trembled now. Practiced. "You're trying to ruin my life because you're jealous."

I stopped on the landing. "Jealous."

"James loves me. He's going to leave you. And you can't handle it." Her eyes were wet. She pressed her hand to her stomach. "You're attacking a pregnant woman."

I looked at James. He wouldn't meet my eyes.

"Say something," I told him.

He shifted his weight. "Amber, if you would just—"

Stormi stumbled forward. Her hand shot out and grabbed my arm. I tried to pull back. She leaned in close.

"You should've stayed quiet," she whispered.

Then she kicked me.

Her foot drove into my abdomen with deliberate force. The air left my lungs. I lost my balance. The stairs tilted. I reached for the railing but my fingers closed on nothing.

I fell.

The world became edges and impacts. My shoulder hit a step. My head snapped back. My hip cracked against wood. I tumbled down the full flight and landed on the hardwood floor at the bottom.

I couldn't breathe. Pain radiated from my stomach outward. I tasted copper.

Footsteps above me.

I turned my head. Looked up.

James stood on the landing. He stared down at me. His face was pale. His hands hung at his sides.

He didn't move.

Stormi appeared beside him. She straightened her sweater. Smoothed her hair. She looked at me crumpled on the floor.

Then she stepped over me and walked to the door.

"James," she said. "Are you coming?"

He looked at her. Then at me.

He followed her out.

The door closed.

I lay on the floor and stared at the ceiling. The pain in my stomach was wrong. Too sharp. Too deep. I pressed my hand against my abdomen and felt wetness.

I pulled my hand away. Blood.

I reached for my phone. My fingers were shaking. I dialed.

"911, what's your emergency?"

"I fell," I whispered. "I'm pregnant. I'm bleeding."

The operator's voice became urgent. "Stay on the line. Help is coming. Can you tell me your address?"

I gave it to her. Then I closed my eyes and waited.

The last thing I thought before the sirens arrived was that James had watched me fall and done nothing.

And that was the moment I stopped being his wife.

The ambulance lights painted the brownstone red and blue. I watched them through my eyelashes. A paramedic leaned over me. Her voice sounded far away.

"Can you tell me your name?"

I tried to answer. My mouth wouldn't work right.

Someone lifted me onto a stretcher. The movement sent fresh pain through my stomach. I made a sound I didn't recognize.

"Easy," the paramedic said. "We've got you."

The neighbor from two doors down stood on the sidewalk in her bathrobe. Mrs. Chen. She must have heard the fall. Must have called for help. I wanted to thank her but the ambulance doors were already closing.

The hospital was bright. Too bright. Faces appeared above me. Strangers asking questions. I answered what I could. My name. My age. Whether I was allergic to anything.

They wheeled me through white corridors. Through double doors. Into a room that smelled like disinfectant and fear.

A doctor came. She was younger than I expected. She pressed cold hands against my abdomen. I flinched.

"I need to do an ultrasound," she said. "Is that okay?"

I nodded.

She squeezed gel onto my stomach. The wand pressed down. I watched her face while she stared at the screen. Her expression changed. Something shifted behind her eyes.

"Ms. Perkins," she said quietly. "Were you aware you were pregnant?"

The room tilted.

"What?"

"You're measuring at approximately six weeks." She paused. The wand moved across my skin. "I'm very sorry. There's no heartbeat."

I stared at the ceiling tiles. Counted them. Twelve across. Eight down. Ninety-six total.

"The fall caused significant trauma," the doctor continued. Her voice was gentle. Professional. "We'll need to do a procedure to—" She stopped. Started again. "I'm also seeing considerable scarring in the uterine lining. Likely from the impact. Future pregnancies will be extremely difficult. Not impossible, but the likelihood is very low."

Ninety-six tiles. White with small black flecks.

"Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

I understood. I was pregnant. Now I wasn't. I might never be again. James had stood on the landing and watched Stormi kick me. Watched me fall. Watched me bleed.

And he'd walked away.

"Yes," I said.

The doctor squeezed my hand. "I'll give you some time. A nurse will be in shortly to discuss next steps."

She left. The door closed with a soft click.

I lay in the quiet room and felt nothing. No tears. No screams. Just a vast, cold emptiness where something had been growing without my knowledge. A future I'd never planned for. A child I'd never meet.

James had pressured me into terminating a pregnancy two years ago. Said the timing wasn't right. Said we needed to wait. I'd grieved alone in our bathroom while he painted in his studio.

Now I'd lost another. And this time, I might never get the chance again.

I pulled out my phone. My hands were steady. I opened the home security app. Found the footage from this morning. Watched Stormi grab my arm. Watched her lean in close. Watched her foot drive into my stomach.

Watched James stand motionless on the landing.

I uploaded the video to Twitter. To Instagram. To TikTok. I didn't write a caption. I didn't need to. The footage spoke for itself.

Then I opened my texts.

Me: *I need you.*

Cassidy: *On my way.*

I set the phone on my chest and closed my eyes.

Sixty-three minutes later, the door opened.

Cassidy still wore her courtroom blazer. Her heels clicked across the tile. She stopped beside the bed and looked at me. Really looked. Her expression cracked.

"Oh, Amber."

She sat down. Took my hand. Didn't say anything else.

I broke then. Not loudly. Just tears that came and wouldn't stop. Cassidy held my hand and let me shake and didn't try to fix it.

When I finally went quiet, she pulled a tissue from the box on the side table. Handed it to me.

"Tell me what you need," she said.

I wiped my face. "I need him to have nothing."

Her expression changed. Became something sharper. "Okay."

"I need a restraining order. I need divorce papers. I need to make sure he can't come near me. Can't call me. Can't—"

"Done." Cassidy pulled out her phone. Started typing. "I'm filing the emergency restraining order right now. Judge Morrison owes me a favor. We'll have it by morning."

"I'm not going back to that house."

"You're not going anywhere near that house." She kept typing. "Where do you want to go?"

I thought about the penthouse on the Upper East Side. The father I hadn't spoken to in six years. The apology I'd never made.

"Home," I said.

Cassidy looked up. Her eyes were wet but her voice was steel. "Then that's where you're going. After we burn his world down from right here."

She stayed until visiting hours ended. She brought me water. She called the nurse when the pain got worse. She sat in the chair beside my bed and made phone calls in her lawyer voice—clipped, precise, merciless.

When she finally left, she squeezed my shoulder.

"You're not going back to being quiet," she said. "Not ever again."

I nodded.

After she was gone, I checked my phone. The videos had gone viral. Tens of thousands of views. Hundreds of comments. People were tagging Columbia. Tagging the art institute. Tagging James.

I turned off the phone and stared at the ceiling.

Ninety-six tiles.

I counted them until I fell asleep.