I wanted to spit. Instead, I swallowed the bile and nodded.
Zoraya cooked for Zeus. They ate together, drank together, walked together. I was a ghost in my own home. More like a maid who cleaned up after their happiness, their laughter, their stolen moments.
Then she started dragging me into their little bubble.
“Can you come to the OB appointment with us?” she asked one day, all innocent eyes and honeyed words.
Zeus added, “It’s important. Savannah needs to bond with the baby now.”
I wanted to scream at them both. But instead, I went. And at the clinic, the doctor congratulated Zoraya, all smiles and good news.
She pretended to cry, those crocodile tears dripping down her cheeks, acting like this was some miracle.
I was frozen. Watching them—the way Zeus looked at her like she was the world. Like I was a shadow disappearing in the background.
Later, back at the apartment, Zeus handed me a bottle of prenatal vitamins.
“Make sure she takes these on time,” he said, voice low and steady. “She forgets sometimes.”
I accepted the bottle with a bitter smile.
Then I looked him in the eye.
“Will you be happy if I’m gone forever?”
His face didn’t change. No flicker of emotion.
“If it’s because of you that you can’t get pregnant with my child and you’re throwing tantrums, please stop it, Savannah,” he said. “Can you just be happy that Zoraya’s pregnant for us? I don’t love her. It’s you I’m still going to marry.”
I held my breath. His words hit like ice.
Marriage. Love. Hope.
But I was dying inside. And my baby was buried deep in my silence.
And that night…
Zeus’s annual dinner party.
It wasn’t just a dinner—it was the event. No outsiders. No mistakes. Only trusted allies, inner circle, the kind of men and women who wore blood under their perfume and smiled through secrets. I was always meant to go with him. My name was on the guest list. Had been for years. Standing beside him like I actually belonged.
I waited until the house got quiet.
Zoraya was in the bath. Zeus was downstairs, probably going over security with Nicco or pouring whiskey over ice like the cold bastard he pretended not to be.
I crept into the master closet.
The gown was supposed to be there.
A custom black satin dress with a slit up the side. The one he had tailored for me last year after we survived the warehouse bombing. He gave it to me wrapped in silver paper, whispering, "Only death could outshine you in this."