The door handle turned. Ava smiled weakly, shifting her aching body to sit up. “David, you missed the nurse, she said—”

The words died in her throat.

David walked in. He wasn’t holding coffee, and he wasn’t holding flowers. He was holding the hand of a woman who looked like she had just stepped out of a Vogue photoshoot.

She was young, perhaps twenty-two. She wore a white cashmere dress that clung to a flat stomach, towering heels that clicked sharply on the linoleum, and on her arm hung a bright pink Hermès Birkin bag—a piece of leather worth more than the entire hospital bill.

The scent of Chanel No. 5 hit Ava like a physical slap, burying the smell of the newborns.

“David?” Ava whispered, her voice cracking. “Who is this?”

David didn’t look at the babies. He looked at Ava with a sneer of pure disgust.

“Look at you,” he said, gesturing vaguely at her form. “You’re a mess, Ava. You look like… an expired dairy cow. Bloated. Sweaty. Gross.”

The woman, Chloe, giggled. It was a high, cruel sound. She stroked the textured leather of her Birkin. “I told you she wouldn’t have bounced back, babe.”

David reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a thick Manila envelope. He tossed it onto the bed. It landed heavily, sliding against Ava’s leg.

“What is this?” Ava asked, tears pricking her eyes. Hormones were flooding her system, making the room spin.

“Divorce papers,” David said coldly. “And a custody waiver. You keep the brats. I don’t want them. They scream, they poop, and they’re expensive. I’m moving on to a higher tax bracket of lifestyle, and you… well, you don’t fit the aesthetic anymore.”

“You can’t do this,” Ava sobbed, reaching for his hand. He recoiled as if she were contagious. “We just had children, David! We have a home!”