The Neglected Wife's Secret: Genius Designer Aria

Her eyes hardened. The sadness in her chest began to crystallize into something colder, something sharper. The leather chair in the VIP waiting room was cold enough to seep through the fabric of Felicity's skirt, chilling the back of her thighs. She sat with her knees pressed together, her hands clutching the small Chanel purse in her lap like it was a lifeline. The silence in the private fertility clinic was heavy, broken only by the rhythmic ticking of a clock on the wall and the distant hum of the air conditioning.

She checked her watch for the third time in five minutes. Forty-five minutes past her appointment time.

A nurse walked by, her rubber-soled shoes squeaking faintly on the polished tile. She glanced at Felicity, and for a second, their eyes met. It wasn't a look of professional reassurance. It was pity. A soft, curdled kind of pity mixed with a sharp edge of curiosity. Felicity looked away, fixing her gaze on a potted orchid that looked too perfect to be real.

Her chest felt tight, a physical pressure that made drawing a full breath difficult. She unlocked her phone, her thumb hovering over the messaging app. The screen was empty. No messages from Garold. No "Good luck." No "Let me know what the doctor says." Just the blank white space of their digital silence.

Two nurses were standing near the reception desk, their voices low but not low enough in the acoustic vacuum of the room.

"Chandler," one whispered.

"I saw it on Page Six this morning," the other replied, a hushed thrill in her voice.

Felicity's fingers stiffened around her phone. Her heart gave a painful thud against her ribs. She didn't want to look. She knew she shouldn't look. But her thumb moved of its own accord, opening the browser and navigating to the gossip site that had become her morning ritual of masochism.

The headline was bold, black, and screamed at her: "Garold Chandler Spotted with Mystery Woman at OB-GYN – Heir on the Way?"

Felicity felt the blood drain from her face. She tapped the photo. It was grainy, taken from a distance with a telephoto lens, but the silhouette was unmistakable. The woman had long, blonde extensions and was clinging to the arm of a tall man in a charcoal suit. Jenilee Shaw.

A wave of nausea rolled through Felicity's stomach. The room tilted slightly to the left. She closed her eyes, swallowing down the bile that rose in her throat.

"Mrs. Chandler?"

The door opened, and Dr. Evans stood there. His voice was hesitant, lacking his usual booming confidence.

Felicity stood up. Her legs felt like they were made of water, trembling under her weight. She forced them to stabilize, locking her knees. She smoothed the front of her skirt, plastered a neutral expression on her face, and walked toward him.

The exam room smelled of antiseptic and latex, a sterile scent that made her lightheaded. Dr. Evans shuffled the papers on his clipboard. He looked at the chart, then at the wall, then at his shoes. Anywhere but at her.

"Well?" Felicity asked. Her voice sounded thin, like it was coming from someone else.

Dr. Evans cleared his throat. "We've run the full panel, Felicity. Everything looks... pristine. Your hormone levels are optimal. There is no structural reason why you shouldn't be able to conceive."

Felicity stared at him. "Then why? It's been three years."

"In cases like this," Dr. Evans said, finally meeting her eyes with a look of profound discomfort, "when the female partner is healthy, we have to look at the male partner. Or..." He paused, adjusting his glasses. "Or the frequency of intercourse."

Felicity let out a laugh. It was a short, sharp sound, like glass breaking. It startled the doctor, who took a half-step back.

It wasn't medical. It wasn't her body failing her. It was simply the math of a loveless marriage. You can't conceive a child with a husband who treats your bed like a sleeping bag he's forced to share.

"Thank you, Doctor," she said. Her voice was hollow now, detached.

She walked out of the exam room. As she passed the reception desk, the two whispering nurses fell abruptly silent, pretending to be engrossed in their computer screens. Felicity didn't look at them. She pushed through the heavy glass doors and stepped out into the harsh Manhattan sunlight.

The brightness stung her eyes. Her phone buzzed in her hand. She looked down. A calendar notification: "3rd Anniversary Dinner."

She stared at the words. The irony burned.

A black SUV pulled up to the curb. Her driver, a stoic man named Henry, got out and opened the rear door. Felicity slid onto the backseat. The leather here was cold too. It seemed she couldn't escape the cold today.

She typed a text to Garold: We need to talk.

Her thumb hovered over the send button. She watched the cursor blink. Once. Twice. Then she backspaced, deleting the words one by one.

She stared out the tinted window as the city blurred past-gray concrete, flashing billboards, people rushing nowhere. A single tear escaped, sliding hot and fast down her cheek. She didn't let it dry. She wiped it away with the back of her hand, an aggressive, angry motion.

The penthouse was silent. It was a sprawling, multi-million dollar silence that felt more oppressive than peaceful. Felicity kicked off her heels near the door, leaving them where they fell-one upright, one tipped on its side. It was a small act of rebellion in a house where everything had its place.

She walked into the kitchen. The refrigerator was a stainless steel monolith filled with organic kale, free-range eggs, and expensive juices she rarely drank. She pulled out ingredients mechanically. Tonight was the anniversary. She would cook his favorite meal. Beef Wellington. It was complex, time-consuming, and required patience. Maybe if she focused on the puff pastry, she wouldn't think about Jenilee Shaw at an OB-GYN clinic.

She chopped mushrooms for the duxelles. The rhythmic thud-thud-thud of the knife against the wooden board calmed her racing mind.

Hours passed. The sun set, turning the skyline outside the floor-to-ceiling windows into a glittering grid of lights. The Beef Wellington sat on the marble counter, cooling. The salad wilted.

The clock on the microwave read 11:04 PM.

The elevator dinged.

Felicity didn't move from her spot by the island. She heard his footsteps-heavy, tired. Garold Chandler walked into the kitchen. He was loosening his tie, pulling the silk knot free with a jerk of his hand. He smelled of scotch and a perfume that was floral and cloying. Not hers.

He glanced at the food on the counter. His expression didn't change. There was no guilt, no apology. Just a weary sort of annoyance.

"You're still up," he said.

"I made dinner," Felicity said softly. "I can reheat it."

Garold waved a hand, dismissing the hours of work with a single gesture. "I ate."

He walked past her, heading toward the master bedroom. Felicity watched his back. The broad shoulders, the tailored suit that cost more than most people's cars. Her heart pounded against her ribs, a frantic, bird-like fluttering.

She followed him.

He was unbuttoning his shirt, tossing it onto the armchair. His back was to her.

"Did you see the news today?" she asked.

Garold paused. She saw the muscles in his back tense, locking up. Then he resumed unbuttoning his cuffs.

"Gossip is for the idle, Felicity. I don't have time for it."

She walked up behind him. She wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing her cheek against the warmth of his back. It was a desperate move. She knew it. She needed to feel something real, something that wasn't the cold leather of a waiting room chair.

"Do you want children, Garold?" she whispered.

He went rigid.

His hands came down over hers, not to hold them, but to pry them apart. He pulled her arms from his waist with firm, undeniable force. He turned around.

He looked down at her. His eyes were the color of steel, and just as hard. There was no affection in them. Not even a flicker.

"Not with you," he said.

The words didn't have any heat. They were factual. Dry.

Felicity took a step back, as if he had physically shoved her. The air left her lungs.

Garold turned away and walked into the bathroom. The door clicked shut. A moment later, the sound of the shower started-a rush of water drowning out the sound of her own ragged breathing.

She stared at the closed door. The finality of it settled over her like a shroud. Not with you.

She turned and walked back to the kitchen. The Beef Wellington looked congealed and sad. She picked up the plate and scraped the entire meal into the trash. The heavy ceramic thudded against the side of the bin.

She poured herself a glass of water from the tap. Her hand was steady now. The trembling had stopped.

She walked past the master bedroom. She didn't go in. instead, she went down the hall to the guest bedroom. She went inside and closed the door.

She turned the lock. The click was loud in the quiet apartment.

Morning sunlight flooded the penthouse, harsh and unforgiving. It highlighted the dust motes dancing in the air and the smudge on the glass coffee table.

Felicity sat on the white sofa. She was already dressed. She wore a sharp navy suit, her hair pulled back into a severe bun. Her makeup was flawless, a mask of composure.

Garold walked into the living room, buttoning his cuff. He paused when he saw her. He blinked, clearly surprised to see her up, dressed, and sitting there instead of bustling around the kitchen making his espresso.

"You're up early," he muttered, walking toward the kitchen. He expected coffee.

"Sit down, Garold," Felicity said.

He stopped. He turned to look at her, a frown creasing his forehead. "Excuse me?"

She pushed a blue folder across the glass table. It slid smoothly, stopping right at the edge near him.

Garold sighed, the sound of a man indulging a child. He walked over and picked it up. "What is this? Another bill from the club? Or did you crash the car again?"

"It's a divorce agreement," Felicity said. Her voice was calm. Unwavering.

Garold froze. His fingers tightened on the folder. He let out a scoff, a sound of pure disbelief. He tossed the folder back onto the table without opening it.

"Don't be dramatic, Felicity. If you want a higher allowance, just ask. You don't need to play these games."

Felicity stood up. She met his gaze. She didn't flinch.

"I don't want your money, Garold. I want my freedom."

Garold stepped closer. He was tall, over six feet, and he used his height now, looming over her. It was a tactic that usually worked. Usually, she would shrink back.

"You have obligations," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "The contract. My family. You don't just walk away because you're feeling neglected."

Felicity smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. It was a cold curve of her lips that didn't reach her eyes.

"I'm doing you a favor. Go be a father to Jenilee's child. I'm sure she needs you more than I do."

Garold's face darkened. "I told you to stop listening to gossip."

"And I'm telling you I'm done listening to you." She took a step toward him, invading his personal space. She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Although, I am surprised she's pregnant. Considering your... performance issues."

Garold's face turned a violent shade of red. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek.

"What did you say?" he growled.

Felicity shrugged, checking her manicured nails. "I mean, three minutes isn't exactly a marathon, darling. Maybe Jenilee inspires you more than I did. Or maybe she just fakes it better."

Garold slammed his hand down on the glass table. The vase of lilies rattled. "You watch your mouth."

He was furious. His masculinity, usually so unassailable, had been pricked. He looked like he wanted to grab her, to shake her.

Before he could move, a phone rang. It was loud, shrill, cutting through the tension. It was his phone, sitting on the kitchen counter.

The screen lit up. Jenilee.

Garold looked at the phone, then back at Felicity. The anger in his eyes warred with something else-panic, maybe? Or duty.

Felicity gestured toward the counter. "Better answer that. Mommy needs you."

Garold pointed a finger at her. "We are not done."

He turned and grabbed the phone, answering it with a harsh, "What?"