My husband never knew that I was the anonymous multimillionaire behind the company he was celebrating that night. To him, I was just his “simple and tired” wife, the one who had “ruined her body” after giving birth to twins. At his promotion gala, I stood holding the babies when he pushed me toward the exit.

“Elle, I need you,” Ryan’s voice cut through the chatter, and I looked up, startled. “Here, now.” I could see the tight lines on his forehead, the flash of irritation behind his eyes as he waved me over. My heart sank a little. He needed me to look pristine, to project the image of a perfect family. But I was the tired mother, the woman who had forgotten how to wear heels.

I maneuvered the stroller through the crowd, feeling their eyes flicker over me, judgments lurking behind the polite smiles. I reached him just in time to hear him speaking with a few important guests. The Owner — a stocky man with a silver ponytail — was there, nodding along, and Ryan turned his gaze on me.

“You’re bloated,” he said, the words piercing through the ambient noise, “You’re ruining my image. Disappear.”

It was a shock, a slap that left me breathless. I blinked slowly, fighting the urge to cry, wanting to scream. But I stood frozen, clutching the stroller, my fingers digging into the cold metal. I didn’t raise my voice. I didn’t cry. I simply walked away from the party… and from him.

Into the Night

The chill of the night air hit me as I pushed the stroller outside, the pain in my chest deepening. I could hear the muffled sounds of celebration behind me fading into the night. I didn’t know where I was going, just that I needed to breathe away from the stifling atmosphere. The stars above twinkled, indifferent to the turmoil swirling inside me.

Hours later, my phone lit up with an incoming message. Ryan. My heart sank again as I read his words: “My cards aren’t working. Why won’t the door open?” My stomach twisted. I was still battling the exhaustion when I turned my phone off, opting for silence. I should have stayed, should have fought for my dignity, but my pride had taken a hard hit.

Moments later, I heard footsteps approaching — his footsteps. I turned just as he grabbed my arm, eyes blazing with frustration. “What’s wrong with you?” he hissed, dragging me toward the dark space near the emergency exit. The stench of the alleyway, a rancid mix of garbage and cold air, filled my nostrils, contrasting sharply with the sweet fragrance of the gala.

“I’m throwing up, Ryan. It’s a baby. You could help.”

His grip tightened, a whirlwind of anger spilling forth. “Help?” he sneered, his glare cutting through the shadows. “I’m the CEO, Elle. I don’t wipe drool. That’s your job. And you’re failing at it.”