Chapter 12: That Is My Wife

The video was short, and it had been posted at four in the morning.

I watched it on the baker's phone at the foot of the back stairs, with my hair still tangled from the pillow.

It showed the top of the white staircase in the penthouse, filmed from the dining room door.

It showed me stopping to put on my coat.

Then it showed me stepping forward, alone, with both hands wrapped around my stomach.

Celia was not in the frame.

Somebody had cut her out.

The caption read: *Ashcroft's wife throws herself down the stairs for sympathy. Doctors say the pregnancy was never real.*

It had four million views.

"That's not what happened," I said.

"I know, love," the baker said.

"She was standing right behind me."

"I know."

Outside the shop window, the pavement was packed from the curb to the hardware store.

There were cameras on tripods and a van from a news station.

A reporter I had never met was talking into a microphone with the bakery sign behind her.

Someone knocked on the glass.

"Mrs. Ashcroft! Did you fake it? Mrs. Ashcroft, is the baby real?"

I put my hand over my mouth.

The back door opened, and Stuart came in from the alley with his phone against his shoulder and rain in his hair.

He had been out since dawn.

He took one look at my face.

"I saw it," he said. "My lawyer saw it an hour ago. It's from Celia's friend, the one who sat three seats from you at the dinner."

"Four million people think I'm a liar."

"They'll think what we show them," he said. "I'm so sorry I wasn't here when you woke up."

"Where were you?"

"With a man who owes me a favor. I'll tell you everything. Willa, you don't have to go out there."

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