The baby nurse remained near the door, pretending not to listen.

“Grant tells me you’re struggling,” Cecelia said.

“Grant has always had an active imagination.”

“You’re exhausted.”

“I gave birth.”

“You’re emotional.”

“I’m observant.”

Her eyes narrowed.

For the first time in three years, Cecelia Whitmore looked directly at me as if I might be more than decorative furniture in her son’s life.

“I know this is not what you hoped for,” she said.

I looked down at Lily.

“What exactly did I hope for?”

“A son would have been easier.”

The room went so quiet I could hear Lily swallowing.

I lifted her gently to my shoulder and patted her back.

“Easier for whom?”

Cecelia crossed one elegant leg over the other.

“For the family.”

“The family has survived daughters before.”

“Not as heirs.”

There it was.

A door cracked open.

I looked at her.

“What does that mean?”

Cecelia smiled faintly.

“It means men carry names.”

“Women carry empires when men are stupid enough to underestimate them.”

The baby nurse’s eyes jumped to me.

Cecelia stood.

“You should be careful, Elena.”

“With what?”

“With forgetting your position.”

I rose slowly, Lily against my shoulder.

I was still bleeding.

I was still sore.

I was still wearing a robe that smelled faintly of milk and lavender soap.

But I had never felt more elegantly dangerous in my life.

“My position,” I said, “is her mother.”

Cecelia looked at Lily like the baby had personally inconvenienced the family bloodline.

Then she turned and left.

The baby nurse followed so quickly she almost stumbled.

That night, Grant came home after midnight.

I was sitting in the dark nursery on the second floor, the one meant for Lily, the one with bare walls and boxes stacked in a corner.

He stopped in the doorway.

“What are you doing in here?”

“Imagining.”

He loosened his tie.

“You should be sleeping.”

“You say that a lot for a man who never helps enough to make it possible.”

He sighed.

“Do we have to do this tonight?”

I looked around the room.

“There’s no crib.”

“I told you we’ll get one.”

“When?”

“Elena.”

“When, Grant?”

His face hardened.

“Stop acting like I’m neglecting her.”

I looked at him.

“You said her name.”

“What?”

“Her name is Lily.”

He looked away.

A small thing.

A massive confession.

“I’m tired,” he said.

“You’re cruel when you’re tired.”

“I’m cruel when you push me.”

I stood.

The room tilted slightly, and I steadied myself on the wall.

Grant did not move to help.

Once, that would have hurt.

Now, I filed it away.

“Who is Sabrina to you?” I asked.

He laughed once.

It was the sound of a door locking.

“You’re doing this because of a text?”

“I’m doing this because my husband treats his newborn daughter like a clerical error.”

His eyes flashed.

“Careful.”

“No.”

The word came out soft.

It stopped him more effectively than shouting ever had.

“No?” he repeated.

“No, I will not be careful with the truth just because it makes you uncomfortable.”

He stepped into the room.

“You have no idea what kind of pressure I am under.”