Left To Die: The Wife's Spectacular Comeback

Elliana Watts sits on the freezing Italian marble floor of the master bathroom. Her fingers tremble so violently that the plastic pregnancy test taps against her diamond wedding band.

The digital screen blinks. Two solid pink lines materialize.

Pregnant.

She slaps a hand over her mouth. The sharp intake of breath scrapes her throat, but she swallows the scream of pure joy. Hot tears spill over her eyelashes, dripping onto her collarbone.

She pushes herself up from the floor. In the vanity mirror, she traces the flat plane of her stomach. She pictures Garrett's face-the way his jaw will slacken, the way he will sweep her into his arms.

She pushes the heavy glass door open. Her bare feet sink into the plush wool runner in the hallway. She heads toward the study to leave the test on his desk as a surprise.

As she passes the grand staircase, a voice drifts up from the kitchen. It is Brenda, the housekeeper.

"No. That is not what we agreed upon."

Elliana stops. Brenda's tone is entirely devoid of the warm, deferential lilt she uses every day. It is flat. Clinical. Ice-cold.

Elliana creeps toward the top of the stairs, holding her breath. Down below, the receiver clicks into the cradle. The conversation is over.

Elliana rubs her right thumb over her index finger knuckle-a nervous habit from years of gripping a stylus. She shakes off the unease and pushes open the double oak doors of Garrett's private study.

The room is empty. On the center of the mahogany desk, Garrett's backup iPad glows. A new email notification sits on the lock screen.

She steps forward to press the power button, not wanting the battery to drain. Her fingertip brushes the screen, accidentally tapping an attachment.

The screen goes black, then flares to life. It is a security video. The angle is from the corner of their own living room. The timestamp reads 2:00 AM last night.

Garrett and Brenda stand in the center of the Persian rug. Their mouths are moving, but the room is silent.

Elliana taps the side of the tablet, searching for the volume button. Nothing happens. The audio track has been completely stripped from the file.

She moves her finger to close the app. Then, Garrett's face turns toward the camera. His features contort into a sneer of absolute disgust. It is a look so ugly, so cold, that her lungs seize.

As a graphic novelist, Elliana spends hours studying facial muscles and mouth shapes to draw accurate dialogue panels. Her brain automatically begins decoding the movements of his lips.

She stares at the screen.

Do not let her stop the medication.

Her chest caves in. A physical weight crushes her ribs. She must have read it wrong. Her trembling finger drags the progress bar back.

She watches his mouth form the words again.

Increase the hallucinogens and the birth control.

A violent wave of nausea hits her. Elliana doubles over, clutching her stomach as acidic bile burns the back of her throat. She forces herself to swallow it down.

Brenda turns her head. But sir, her mental state is already fragile.

Garrett's lips thin into a cruel line. Then let her become a complete lunatic. As long as she doesn't bother Colin.

Colin.

The name strikes her like a physical blow to the skull. Colin Richardson. Her former fiancé. The man who is now married to Garrett's sister, Cristina.

Three years. Three years of inexplicable exhaustion, missing hours, and sudden emotional collapses. The puzzle pieces snap together, forming a jagged, bleeding picture.

A soft ding echoes from the foyer. The private elevator. Garrett is home early.

Adrenaline floods her veins, making her scalp prickle. She slams her finger onto the sleep button. The screen goes black.

She aligns the iPad perfectly with the edge of the leather desk mat, erasing any trace of her presence.

She sprints down the hall, her bare feet slapping the hardwood. She bursts into the master bedroom, yanks open the bottom drawer of her vanity, and shoves the pregnancy test beneath a pile of silk scarves. She turns the tiny key.

She dives into the massive bed, pulling the heavy silk duvet up to her chin. Her entire body shakes. She squeezes her eyes shut.

The bedroom door clicks open. The familiar scent of expensive cedar and bergamot cologne drifts into the room. A large, warm hand cups her cheek.

Garrett sits on the edge of the mattress. "Ellie," he whispers, his voice dripping with practiced warmth. "Wake up, sweetheart."

Elliana opens her eyes. Her stomach violently churns, but she forces the corners of her mouth up, stretching her lips into a groggy, sweet smile.

Garrett holds out a crystal glass of water and two small, white pills. "Dr. Evans sent over the new imported multivitamins. Time to take them."

Elliana stares at the white disks resting in his palm. The tips of her fingers turn ice-cold. She doesn't move.

Garrett's hand drops a fraction of an inch. He adjusts his left cufflink with his right hand. His eyes narrow, scanning her face. "Are you feeling alright, darling?"

The shift in his tone is subtle, but the threat is palpable. She is being tested.

Elliana immediately pouts, rubbing her right arm. "I was drawing for six hours yesterday. My wrist is killing me."

She reaches out, picking up the pills. She places them on the center of her tongue, takes a large gulp of water, and tilts her head back. Her throat bobs in an exaggerated swallowing motion.

Garrett's shoulders relax. He smiles, leaning down to press his lips against her forehead.

He stands and turns his back to her, walking toward the floor-to-ceiling windows to pull back the heavy drapes.

In that three-second window, Elliana uses her tongue to push the pills from the roof of her mouth. She brings her hand to her lips, swiftly spitting the damp white disks into a crumpled tissue she had hidden in her palm. She balls the paper up tightly and shoves it deep into the pocket of her silk pajama pants.

Garrett turns around. "Cristina is flying back from Paris tomorrow. We need to pick her up at JFK."

Cristina. The final piece of the logic puzzle locks into place. Cristina had stolen Colin from her. Garrett had swooped in immediately after.

This marriage is not a romance. It is a prison. A cage built to keep her sedated and far away from Colin.

A tremor starts in her hands and rapidly spreads to her shoulders. She is shaking with pure, unadulterated rage.

Garrett crosses the room in two strides. His heavy hands clamp down on her shoulders. "Why are you shaking?" His voice is low, dangerous.

Panic spikes in her chest. She looks up, forcing her eyes to widen. She lets out a breathless laugh.

"Garrett! I just remembered! A Hollywood studio emailed my agent this morning. They want to buy the film rights to The Prairie Fire!"

She uses the physical tremors, channeling her rage into a mask of overwhelming excitement.

Garrett's grip loosens. The suspicion in his eyes melts away, replaced instantly by a dark, calculating gleam of greed.

"That is incredible news," he says smoothly. "But Hollywood contracts are a nightmare. Let my legal team handle the negotiations. I want to protect you."

Bile rises in her throat again. She nods eagerly, looking up at him with wide, dependent eyes. "Yes, please."

Garrett checks his Rolex. "I have a crisis at the firm. I need to head back down."

He walks to the door, pausing in the hallway. "Brenda! Make sure my wife eats a full lunch."

The elevator doors slide shut.

The smile drops from Elliana's face. Her features turn to stone.

She walks into the bathroom and locks the door. She turns the sink faucet on full blast.

She pulls the damp, slightly dissolved pills from her pocket. She wraps them carefully in a tissue and shoves them into the hidden zipper compartment of her makeup bag.

She opens the mirrored medicine cabinet. Rows of amber bottles stare back at her.

She reaches to the very back, pulling out a bottle of generic, over-the-counter calcium supplements she had bought months ago. The chalky white tablets are nearly identical in shape and texture to the sedatives. She dumps the remaining prescribed pills from the current amber bottle into the toilet and flushes them away, replacing them with the harmless calcium tablets.

She grips the edges of the marble sink, staring at her pale reflection. She swears to make them pay.

The black Cadillac Escalade idles outside the VIP arrivals terminal at JFK. The engine emits a low, steady hum.

Garrett stands on the curb in a bespoke suit, holding a massive bouquet of champagne roses. His eyes dart toward the glass doors with an intense, almost feverish anticipation.

Elliana stands beside him in a simple beige trench coat. She watches her husband's unnatural obsession with his sister with dead, cold eyes.

The glass doors slide open. Cristina struts out, wearing oversized Chanel sunglasses and towering red-soled Louboutins.

Behind her, a small army of airport staff pushes brass carts loaded with Louis Vuitton trunks.

Cristina's eight-year-old son, Blair, trails beside her, aggressively mashing the buttons on a limited-edition gaming console.

Elliana scans the entourage. Colin is not with them.

Garrett steps forward. Cristina rips off her sunglasses, lets out a high-pitched squeal, and throws herself into Garrett's arms.

The embrace is suffocatingly tight. Garrett's hands slide down and linger on the small of Cristina's back for far too long.

A wave of revulsion hits Elliana's stomach.

She forces the bile down, steps forward, and pastes a soft, welcoming smile on her face. "Welcome back to New York, Cristina."

Cristina doesn't even blink in her direction. She looks right through Elliana, complaining to Garrett about the terrible pastries in Paris.

The blatant disrespect hangs in the air, thick and suffocating.

Blair runs up to Elliana. He lifts his heavy sneaker and stomps down hard on her brand-new Prada flats.

A sharp pain shoots through her toes. A black scuff mark ruins the pristine white leather.

Elliana gasps, stumbling backward.

Blair points at her and sticks his tongue out. "Stupid woman!"

Elliana snaps her head toward Garrett, waiting for him to discipline his nephew.

Garrett reaches down and ruffles Blair's hair. "He's just playing, Ellie. Don't be so sensitive."

Cristina finally turns her head. She looks Elliana up and down. "You look like a hot dog vendor from Times Square. Did you buy that coat at a thrift store?"

Elliana's fingernails dig into her palms. The pain grounds her, keeping the explosive anger locked inside her chest.

She lowers her head, letting her shoulders slump. She plays the role of the pathetic, broken wife perfectly.

Cristina and Garrett exchange a smug, victorious look over her bowed head.

The driver opens the doors of the Escalade. As the wife, Elliana should take the front passenger seat.

Cristina shoves past her and slides into the front seat without a word.

Garrett climbs into the second-row captain's chair, pulling Blair onto his lap.

Elliana is left standing on the curb. She silently climbs into the cramped, windowless third row.

The heavy doors slam shut, trapping her in a confined space reeking of Cristina's overpowering floral perfume.

Garrett and Cristina immediately launch into a loud conversation about a dinner party on the Upper East Side.

Sitting in the dark shadows of the back row, Elliana stares at the rearview mirror. She watches Garrett's eyes trace his sister's profile. She reaches into her pocket and hits record on her phone.