The Secret Savior He Threw Away

The wet warmth between her legs pulled Diana from the heavy fog of sleep. For a blissful second, she thought it was just sweat, a fever breaking after a night of chills. But as her mind focused, the metallic, copper scent hit her nose.

Her eyes snapped open.

She threw back the heavy duvet. A dark, stark stain spread across the pale Egyptian cotton sheets, centered right beneath her. It was a horrifying bloom of red against the pristine white.

"No," she breathed, the word catching in her dry throat.

She tried to sit up, but a blinding cramp ripped through her lower abdomen. It felt like a giant, invisible hand was twisting her insides, squeezing until she couldn't breathe. She gasped, doubling over, her fingers clutching the soaked sheets. The pain was a living thing, radiating from her core down to her trembling legs.

She looked at the blood again. It was too much. This wasn't just spotting. This was her body emptying out.

The tablet on the nightstand lit up with a push notification, casting a cold blue glow across the dark room. Diana reached for it with a shaking hand, desperate for a distraction, desperate for anything to anchor her to reality.

The screen showed a breaking news alert from the Wall Street Journal. The headline read: Alston CEO and Art Sensation Carla Booth Debut New Partnership at SoHo Gallery.

Below the headline was a photo. Curtis Alston, her husband, stood next to Carla Booth. He was in a tailored tuxedo, his dark hair perfectly styled. But it wasn't his outfit that made Diana's stomach heave. It was his eyes. He was looking down at Carla, who was laughing up at him, and the expression on his face was one Diana had never seen directed at her in three years of marriage. It was warmth. It was absolute adoration.

A fresh wave of cramps hit her, and she dropped the tablet onto the mattress. She curled into a ball, pressing her forehead to her knees.

She remembered the stairs. Just a few hours ago, she had been walking down the marble staircase of this very penthouse, trying to answer the door for a delivery. Her foot had slipped on the polished edge. She remembered the horrible, weightless sensation of falling, the sickening crack of her tailbone against the steps, and then the immediate, gushing warmth.

She had lain at the bottom of the stairs, gasping, watching the blood pool beneath her nightgown. She had scrambled for her phone, her fingers slick with her own blood, and dialed Curtis.

He had answered on the third ring. Background noise-clinking glasses, smooth jazz, Carla's distinctive laugh-had flooded the line.

"Curtis," she had sobbed, "I fell. I'm bleeding. Please, I need an ambulance."

His voice had been ice. "Diana, I'm in the middle of a crucial transatlantic meeting. Stop being dramatic and call the house doctor. I don't have time for your tantrums right now."

The line went dead.

And now, she was lying in their bed, losing their baby, while he was looking at another woman like she was the center of the universe.

The bedroom door swung open, hitting the wall with a loud bang. Curtis strode in, still wearing the custom black suit from the gallery opening. The smell of expensive bourbon and Carla's signature gardenia perfume trailed in with him.

He didn't look at the bed. He didn't look at her face. He walked straight to the dresser, unfastening his cufflinks with sharp, angry movements.

"Curtis," Diana whispered. Her voice sounded like sandpaper against glass.

He finally turned. His gaze dropped to the rumpled sheets, to the dark stain, and then to her pale, sweaty face. His jaw tightened, but there was no panic in his eyes. There was only a cold, hard disgust.

"Get up," he said, his voice flat. "You have thirty minutes to shower and change."

Diana stared at him, the cramps making it hard to form thoughts. "What?"

"The Hampton estate dinner is tonight. Montgomery is expecting us, and the key players for the R&H Group acquisition will be there. You need to be on my arm."

"Curtis, I'm bleeding," she said, a tear slipping down her cheek. "I lost the baby. I'm losing-"

"Cut the act, Diana," he snapped, cutting her off. He took a step closer, his shadow falling over her. "What, did you see the news about Carla and decide this was the perfect time for a little drama? This is exactly the kind of cheap stunt I expect from you."

"It's not an act," she choked out, the pain stealing her breath. "I fell down the stairs. I called you. I'm miscarrying."

He let out a harsh, humorless laugh. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, velvet box. He tossed it onto the bed. It landed right next to her hand, the dark blue velvet a stark contrast to the blood.

"Put this on," he ordered. "And whatever mess you've made, clean it up. You will walk into that dinner as Mrs. Alston, and you will smile. Do not embarrass this family."

"Curtis, please," she begged, reaching out a trembling hand toward him. "Just take me to the hospital. Please."

He ignored her outstretched hand. "If you refuse to show up tonight, I will make a phone call. By tomorrow morning, Wilcox Group's credit lines will be frozen, and your father will lose his appeal. Do you understand me?"

The threat hit her like a bucket of ice water. The coldness spread from her chest to her limbs, momentarily numbing the physical pain. He was using her incarcerated father, the company her brother was fighting to save, as a leash.

She had no choice. She never had a choice with him.

Diana slowly pulled her hand back. She looked at his perfectly polished shoes, the cold marble floor, and the velvet box. She didn't have the strength to fight him. She didn't have the strength to scream.

"Thirty minutes, Diana," he repeated, turning his back to her. "Don't make me come up here again."

He walked out, leaving the door wide open.

Diana forced herself to sit up. Every movement sent a fresh wave of agony through her abdomen. She felt lightheaded, the edges of her vision turning gray. She slid off the bed, her bare feet hitting the floor with a soft thud. A fresh rush of warmth trickled down her leg, but she ignored it.

She stumbled into the massive walk-in closet, her hand braced against the wall for support. Each step was a monumental effort, her body screaming in protest. It was a shrine to her role as his wife-rows of designer dresses, shelves of expensive shoes, all chosen to project an image of perfection. She bypassed the pastels and the whites. She reached for a heavy, floor-length gown in deep crimson. It would hide any accidents. It would match the blood.

She stripped off her ruined nightgown and stepped into the dress. The fabric felt like sandpaper against her hypersensitive skin. Her fingers fumbled with the zipper, cold sweat beading on her forehead as she fought against a wave of dizziness. She finally managed to pull it up, the tight bodice pressing against her swollen, aching belly. She looked in the mirror. Her face was a ghostly white, her lips pale, her eyes hollow.

She picked up the velvet box from the bed and opened it. A diamond necklace sat inside, cold and glittering. She clasped it around her neck. The ice of the stones against her collarbone made her shiver. It felt like a collar.

Exactly thirty minutes later, she walked out of the bedroom. She moved like a zombie, each step requiring a monumental effort.

Curtis was standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room, scrolling through his phone. He looked up when he heard her heels on the hardwood. He gave her a slow, assessing once-over. His expression didn't soften. He just gave a curt nod.

"Let's go," he said.

He didn't offer his arm. He didn't wait for her. He just walked toward the private elevator.

Diana followed him, her hand trailing along the wall for support. They stepped into the elevator. The doors slid shut, enclosing them in the small, mirrored space. As the car began its rapid descent, a wave of dizziness crashed over Diana. The pressure in her head built until it felt like her skull would split open. Her knees buckled.

She reached out blindly, her hand grabbing the metal handrail, but her fingers slipped. She stumbled sideways, her shoulder hitting the mirrored wall with a dull thud.

She looked at Curtis, hoping for a hand, a look of concern, anything.

He stood perfectly still in the center of the elevator, his hands in his pockets. He watched her struggle to regain her footing, his eyes as cold and flat as the steel doors in front of them. He didn't move a muscle to help her. He just watched her fall.

The Rolls-Royce purred to a stop under the portico of the Alston Hampton estate. The mansion was ablaze with light, the warm glow spilling out across the manicured lawns and illuminating the valets in their crisp uniforms. The sound of a string quartet drifted through the open front doors.

Curtis stepped out of the car first, not bothering to look back. He buttoned his suit jacket and immediately greeted a silver-haired man approaching the steps, his face breaking into that practiced, charming smile.

Diana sat in the backseat for a moment, gathering her strength. The drive had been a blur of pain and nausea. She took a shallow breath and slid across the leather seat, stepping out onto the cobblestone driveway.

The moment her heels hit the ground, her legs gave out. The weakness in her muscles, the loss of blood, the sheer exhaustion-it all collided at once. Her knees buckled, and she pitched forward toward the cold stone steps.

She threw her hands out, catching herself on the rough edge of the step. The impact jarred her wrists, but she managed to stop her face from hitting the stone. She stayed there for a second, on her hands and knees, gasping for air, the hem of her crimson dress pooling around her.

The head butler, Pemberton, stood at the top of the steps. He looked down at her, his face impassive, but Diana caught the slight curl of his lip. It was a look of pure contempt. He made no move to assist her.

Diana gritted her teeth and used the ornate iron railing beside the steps to haul herself up. Her arms trembled violently with the effort, and black spots danced in her vision, but she forced herself to stand. She smoothed down her dress, her hands shaking, and walked up the rest of the steps on her own.

Inside the grand ballroom, the air was thick with the scent of expensive cigars and Chanel No. 5. Curtis was already deep in conversation with a group of men near the bar, a crystal tumbler in his hand. He didn't even glance her way.

Diana found a quiet corner near a marble pillar. She pressed her shoulder against the cool stone, letting it support some of her weight. She kept her head down, trying to make herself as small as possible. If she was invisible, maybe the night would pass without incident.

But the Alston women had a radar for weakness.

"Well, well. Look who finally decided to grace us with her presence."

Diana closed her eyes for a brief second before opening them. Henrietta Alston, Curtis's mother, stood before her. Henrietta was wearing a severe purple gown that matched her icy demeanor, a champagne flute held elegantly in her hand. Right behind her, smirking, was Tatum, Curtis's younger sister.

"I'm surprised you could tear yourself away from whatever soap opera you've been watching in that penthouse," Henrietta said, her voice just loud enough to carry to the nearby guests. A few women paused their conversations, eager for the show.

Tatum leaned in, a fake look of concern on her face. "Don't be too hard on her, Mother. Diana is just feeling a little under the weather. She needs her rest."

Diana gripped her evening bag so tightly her knuckles turned white. "Henrietta. Tatum."

Henrietta took a delicate sip of her champagne. "Don't 'Henrietta' me. I don't claim a woman who can't even keep her husband interested, let alone understand basic social obligations. You look like a ghost, Diana. It's embarrassing."

A few titters of laughter rippled through the nearby group.

Tatum pulled her phone from her clutch, her eyes lighting up with malice. "Oh, speaking of interesting, did you see Carla's new piece? It just sold at Sotheby's for a record price. She's a true visionary." She tilted the screen so Diana had to look. Carla's face filled the frame, her soft brown eyes looking earnest and artistic.

Henrietta smiled, a genuine expression that she never offered her daughter-in-law. "Of course she is. Carla comes from old money and real talent. She has grace. Unlike some people who had to use a dying company as a dowry to trap a husband."

Every word was a hammer blow to Diana's fragile composure. She knew they wanted a reaction. They wanted her to cry, to scream, to make a scene so they could confirm she was the trash they believed her to be.

But the cramping in her belly was starting again, a dull, persistent throb that was climbing to a sharp peak. A sheen of cold sweat broke out on her forehead. She shifted her weight, leaning more heavily against the pillar.

Tatum noticed her grimace and rolled her eyes. "Oh, please. You're acting like you're dying. You look like you're about to throw up. What's the matter, Diana? Did the caviar not agree with you?"

"I'm fine," Diana managed, her voice barely a whisper.

Tatum stepped closer, her eyes narrowing. "You know, the way you're clutching your stomach and sweating... if I didn't know better, I'd think you were pregnant."

The word hung in the air like a gunshot.

Pregnant.

The irony was so brutal, so cruel, that Diana felt the floor tilt beneath her. She had been pregnant. She had been carrying a life. And now she was standing here, bleeding out that life, being mocked by these vicious women.

The color drained entirely from Diana's face. Her body began to shake, a fine tremor that started in her hands and spread to her shoulders. She couldn't breathe. The walls of the ballroom seemed to be closing in on her.

Henrietta looked her up and down, her lip curling in disgust. "Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. You can't even stand up straight at a family event. You're a disgrace to the Alston name."

Diana bit her lower lip so hard she tasted blood. She wanted to scream the truth at them. She wanted to tell them about the blood, the baby, the absolute hell her life was. But she knew it wouldn't matter. To them, her pain was just a performance.

Her vision blurred, the chandeliers above her smearing into streaks of gold. She felt her knees start to give way again. She was going to collapse, right here, in front of everyone.

She looked across the room, a desperate, instinctive search for her husband. She found Curtis. He was watching her.

Their eyes met over the sea of guests. But there was no concern in his gaze. There was only a cold, hard warning. His jaw was clenched, and his eyes narrowed slightly, a clear command: Stand up. Stop making a scene. Do not embarrass me.

He looked away, turning back to his conversation.

The finality of that look shattered something inside her. He didn't care if she lived or died. He only cared about the show.

Diana's eyes rolled back, and the ballroom tilted violently. She started to slide down the pillar, her clutch bag hitting the floor with a soft thud.

"Henrietta! Tatum!"

The booming voice cut through the music and the chatter like a knife. The room went instantly quiet.

Henrietta and Tatum froze, their smug expressions vanishing, replaced by sudden fear. They slowly turned toward the source of the voice.

Diana clung to the pillar, fighting to stay conscious. She looked up and saw an older man striding toward them from the entrance to the study. He leaned heavily on a silver-tipped cane, but his posture was rigid, his presence commanding.

Montgomery Alston. The patriarch. The man who owned every soul in this room.

He stopped in front of the two women, his sharp eyes taking in Diana's slumped, shaking form. His face was like thunder.

"Is this how the women of the Alston family treat their hostess?" he roared, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. "Like stray dogs on the street?"

The silence in the ballroom was absolute. You could hear the ice clinking in the glasses across the room. Nobody dared to breathe.

Henrietta shrank back, her face flushing a mottled red. Tatum suddenly found the floor very interesting, her earlier bravado evaporating under her grandfather's furious gaze.

Montgomery Alston ignored his daughter and granddaughter. He turned his piercing blue eyes to Curtis, who was standing frozen by the bar, his drink still in his hand.

"Curtis," Montgomery barked, the single word a command that brooked no argument. "Come here."

Curtis set his glass down with a sharp clink. He walked across the room, his face a careful mask of neutrality, though Diana could see the muscle ticking in his jaw. He stopped in front of his grandfather.

"Your wife is unwell," Montgomery said, his voice low but carrying in the quiet room. "Take care of her. Now."

It wasn't a suggestion. It was an order from the man who controlled the Alston empire. Curtis couldn't refuse. Not here. Not in front of the board members and the society pages.

"Of course, Grandfather," Curtis said, his tone deferential but tight.

He walked over to Diana. He didn't ask if she was okay. He didn't offer a gentle hand. He reached out and wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her upright. But his fingers dug into her side like iron clamps, a silent punishment for the scene she was causing.

Diana gasped at the sudden pressure on her tender abdomen, but she forced herself to stand straight.

Montgomery nodded once, a dismissal. "Good. Take her to sit down. Stay with her."

Curtis guided her away from the pillar, his grip never loosening. He led her to a velvet settee near the edge of the dance floor and practically shoved her down onto the cushion. He sat down beside her, his body rigid with suppressed fury.

To the rest of the room, they looked like a devoted husband tending to his ailing wife. But the reality was a cold war.

Curtis leaned in, his face inches from hers, a fake smile plastered on his lips for the benefit of the watchers. But his voice was a venomous hiss.

"You think you're clever, don't you?" he whispered. "Running to my grandfather. Playing the victim. You just love making me look like a fool."

Diana stared at her hands folded in her lap. They were still shaking. "I didn't... I didn't run to anyone. I was just standing there."

"Shut up," he muttered through his smile. "You manipulate everyone around you, Diana. But you forget who holds the leash. You pull a stunt like this again, and I'll make sure you regret it."

He shifted away from her, putting a solid foot of space between them on the small sofa. He crossed his legs and stared straight ahead, ignoring her completely.

The rest of the dinner was a special kind of torture. Diana sat there, a mannequin in a red dress, while Curtis chatted with the people who approached them, acting as if she didn't exist. The pain in her belly was a constant, throbbing ache, and the diamond necklace felt like it was choking her. Every time she shifted, his hand would snap out and grip her knee, a silent warning to stay still.

Finally, after an eternity, the guests began to leave. Curtis stood up immediately, not offering her a hand.

"We're leaving," he said.

The ride back to Manhattan in the back of the Bentley was suffocating. The partition was up, sealing them in the dark, leather-scented cabin. The driver, Hogan, navigated the dark roads in silence, sensing the explosive tension in the air.

Curtis didn't look at her once. He stared out the window, his fingers drumming an angry rhythm on his thigh. The silence was so heavy it pressed down on Diana's chest, making it hard to breathe.

When the car finally stopped in the underground garage of their building, Curtis was out the door before the engine died. He strode to the private elevator, Diana trailing behind him like a ghost.

The elevator doors opened into their penthouse. The moment they stepped inside the foyer, Curtis spun around.

He grabbed Diana by the shoulders and slammed her back against the wall. The impact knocked the air from her lungs, and a sharp spike of pain radiated from her lower back. She cried out, her hands flying up to grip his wrists.

"You think you can embarrass me in front of my family?" he snarled, his face inches from hers, his breath hot and smelling of whiskey. "You think you can use my grandfather against me?"

"Curtis, stop, you're hurting me," she gasped, trying to push him away. But her strength was nothing compared to his rage.

"You wanted my attention, Diana? Is that what this is?" He pressed his body against hers, pinning her to the wall. "You wanted me to look at you instead of Carla?"

"I wasn't thinking about Carla," she sobbed, tears of pain and frustration spilling over. "I just wanted to survive the night. I'm sick. I'm hurt."

"You're sick, alright," he sneered. "You're sick with jealousy. You can't stand that she's everything you're not. She's talented, she's genuine, and she doesn't have to play games to get my attention."

He released one of her shoulders and grabbed her chin, forcing her face up to his. His eyes were dark, burning with a mix of anger and something else-something cruel and possessive.

"Let me show you what you are to me," he whispered.

Before she could turn away, his mouth crashed down on hers.

It wasn't a kiss. It was an invasion. His lips were hard and punishing, his teeth scraping against hers, bruising her mouth. He forced her lips apart, taking without asking, claiming without caring. It tasted like bourbon and bitterness.

Diana struggled, pushing against his chest, turning her head to escape the assault. But he just followed, his grip on her chin tightening until she felt like her jaw would crack. She was trapped between the cold wall and his hot, angry body, completely at his mercy.

A sob caught in her throat. The physical pain of the kiss merged with the agonizing cramps in her belly and the shattered remains of her heart. She went limp, her hands falling to her sides, submitting to the punishment because she had no fight left.

He pulled back abruptly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He stared down at her, his chest heaving, his eyes full of disgust.

Diana slid down the wall, unable to stand anymore. She collapsed onto the hardwood floor, her red dress bunching around her, her head bowed.

Curtis looked at her crumpled form. There was no regret in his eyes. There was only cold satisfaction.

"Remember this, Diana," he said, his voice flat and hard. "You are not my partner. You are not my equal. You are a piece of decoration I bought to make the house look good. And decoration doesn't speak unless spoken to."

He stepped over her legs, not caring if his shoe caught the hem of her dress. He walked toward the bedroom, unbuttoning his shirt.

"You're sleeping in the guest room tonight," he threw over his shoulder. "I can't stand the sight of you."