Chapter 1
On Christmas Eve, my daughter, Anna Kingston, was in the emergency room, her body covered in hives and gasping for air.
I kept calling my husband, Brian Kingston, over and over.
"Claire, can you stop bothering me?" Brian snapped.
On the other end, the music was deafening, mixed with a woman's flirtatious laughter.
It was Emily Lane, the rising starlet.
"I'm with a client. It's important," Brian said.
I gripped my phone so tightly that my knuckles turned white.
"Brian, Anna's in the ER. You need to come home now," I said, my voice trembling.
"Here we go again. How serious could it be?" Brian scoffed.
He let out an impatient laugh, his tone icy and indifferent. "Emily's allergic to mangoes. She didn't eat any tonight. I need to stay with her."
He slammed the call shut, leaving me with nothing but silence.
I stood rooted to the spot, feeling my blood slowly turn to ice.
The doctor walked out with the test results, looking serious.
"She's having a severe allergic reaction. It's that stuffed bear she brought with her. It's covered in a really strong perfume," the doctor explained.
That was the same bear Emily had handed Anna earlier that afternoon.
She said it was a Christmas present for Anna.
*****
The cold corridor was thick with the harsh scent of disinfectant, burning my nose and making my eyes water.
Anna lay in the hospital bed, her face ghostly pale, with an oxygen mask covering her mouth and nose. Even in sleep, she was restless, unable to find any comfort.
I stayed by her side, my heart clenched tight as if crushed by an invisible hand, every beat stabbing with pain.
Emily was allergic to mangoes, so you had to take care of her, huh?
And what about my daughter? Anna was allergic to cheap perfume. Do you even care, Brian?
Of course you never bothered.
During our three-year marriage, I could count on one hand the times Brian actually came home.
Anna's allergy history? He never cared enough to remember.
It was three in the morning when Brian finally showed up.
He still carried the stench of alcohol and that overpoweringly sweet perfume.
It was the exact same scent that clung to Anna's stuffed bear.
My stomach twisted into knots, a storm of nausea and anger rising inside me.
He barely glanced at Anna lying in the hospital bed, his brow creasing in annoyance.
"What happened? Got hospitalized on Christmas Eve? Way to ruin the holiday," Brian grumbled.
I looked up at his handsome, icy face, keeping my composure.
"The doctor said it was a perfume allergy," I said.
Brian's gaze dodged mine for a second, then he impatiently tugged at his tie.
"Kids have sensitive skin. She could be allergic to anything. Stop making such a fuss," he scoffed.
The way he brushed it off was like a needle, stabbing right through the last shred of hope I was holding onto.
I stood up and walked up to him, my voice barely above a whisper, but there was a determination in it that I'd never had before.
"Brian, I want a divorce," I said.
He froze, as if he'd misheard me, then laughed derisively.
"Claire, what kind of game are you playing now?
"Did you really send Anna to the ER just to make me notice you? Your little schemes are getting more and more pathetic."
Game?
You think I'd gamble with my daughter's life just to play games with you?
I was shaking with anger, my chest heaving so hard that I could barely get the words out.
I spat, "Do you really think everyone is as despicable and shameless as you?
"Do you really think I can't survive without you?"
Every word came out clear and firm.
"My lawyer will send you the divorce papers as soon as possible.
"I will have custody of Anna. I won't compromise on that."
Brian's mocking smile froze on his face.
He'd probably never seen this side of me before.
I was calm and resolute, like a warrior marching onto the battlefield.
He reached out to grab my wrist, but I sidestepped, dodging his grasp.
"Claire, are you out of your mind?" Brian snapped.
I gave him a cold, unflinching stare.
I replied, "I'm more clear-headed than ever.
"You're the crazy one here, Brian.
"For another woman, you don't even care if your own daughter lives or dies."
My phone buzzed with a text message.
It was from an unknown number, with a high-definition photo attached.
In the photo, Brian was bending down to gently wipe Emily's mouth, amidst the lively party.
The photo was taken exactly when I was calling him for help.
I turned my phone so he could see the screen. The photo's glow mirrored in his wide, stunned eyes.
"So this is your 'important client'?" I said.
His face went ghostly pale in an instant.