The CEO's Runaway Genius Surgeon Wife

A few days later, Alex sat in the formal dining room, listlessly stirring a bowl of oatmeal. The sharp click-clack of heels on marble announced the arrival of her mother-in-law.

Eleanor Carlisle swept in, wearing a Chanel suit and her signature Hermès scarf, her face a mask of aristocratic disdain. She didn't sit. She stood over Alex, her eyes fixed on Alex's flat stomach.

"Five years, Alexandra." Eleanor's voice was as sharp as broken glass. "Five years, and still nothing. My friends are all grandmothers twice over. What are you doing with your time?"

Alex's hand tightened on her spoon. In the past, she would have mumbled an apology. Today, the dam of her patience had broken.

She looked up, meeting Eleanor's cold gaze. "We are trying, Eleanor."

Eleanor let out a short, ugly laugh. "'Trying'? A girl from your background should know how to secure her position. Or did you think marrying into the Carlisle family was just for show?"

The words were a deliberate, poisoned dart. "My background?" Alex repeated, a chill in her voice.

"Don't play dumb with me," Eleanor sneered. "You are lucky Damien chose you. Your only duty is to provide this family with an heir. You can't even do that right."

Alex set down her spoon. The question had been burning inside her for weeks, and now it finally rose to her lips.

"Eleanor, do you know that Damien has a mistress?"

Eleanor's expression flickered—just for a second—before the mask of disdain returned. "What are you talking about?"

"Seraphina Sanford," Alex said, her voice steady. "The woman he parades around. If she's so important to him, why doesn't she give you an heir? Why does it have to be me?"

Eleanor's eyes went cold. "Seraphina is different. She is delicate. Damien treasures her too much to let her go through the suffering of childbirth."

The words hit Alex like a physical blow. "Too much to let her go through that?" she repeated, incredulous. "But it's fine to make me go through it year after year? To make me take hormones that make me sick, to make me lie there like that—why? Is she allowed to be above it all while I'm just supposed to endure it?"

"You are his wife," Eleanor cut in. "That is your duty."

"And what about Clara?" Alex pressed. "She is my daughter. Why can't she be the heir? Why does it have to be a son? Is whether it's a boy or a girl something I alone can decide? Is producing a son my responsibility alone?"

Eleanor looked at her with cold, pitiless eyes. "The trust is clear. Only a male heir can inherit control."

"And if I have another daughter?" Alex demanded. "If I give him another girl, will that be enough? Or will you keep pushing until my body breaks? Until I give you a son?"

"Don't be so dramatic," Eleanor snapped.

"Dramatic?" Alex's voice cracked. "Do you know what it was like when I had Clara? I hemorrhaged. I almost died on that operating table. And not one person—not Damien, not you, not a single person in this family—asked if I was okay. Three months later, you started asking when I would try again."

"How dare you speak to your elder like that?" Eleanor slammed her hand on the table. "Kneel. Apologize to me."

Alex did not kneel. She did not apologize. She looked Eleanor Carlisle straight in the eye. She was already pregnant, but she had no intention of telling her. She could not let this child become a bargaining chip. This child, if she chose to keep it, could only be hers.

Just then, Damien descended the staircase, dressed for the office. He saw the confrontation and his brow furrowed—not in concern for Alex, but in annoyance at having his morning disturbed.

Alex did not turn to him for help as she once would have. She looked at him as if he were a stranger who happened to share her address.

"Damien," Eleanor began, her voice full of outrage.

"Enough," he said, cutting off his mother. His gaze swept over Alex coldly, without a trace of concern. "I don't have time for this. Mother is just concerned about the family."

He walked past her and kissed Eleanor's cheek. "I'm off to the office, Mother. Don't let her ruin your day."

He picked up his briefcase and strode toward the door without giving his wife another glance.

Alex felt fury burning inside her. She shot up from her chair, ran out of the dining room, and caught up with him just as the driver held the Bentley's door open for him.

"Damien!" she called out.

He turned, his expression one of pure irritation. "What now, Alex? I'm going to be late."

She stared into his cold blue eyes—the same eyes that looked at Seraphina with such warmth—and spoke each word with chilling clarity. "I want a divorce."

He stared at her for a second, then a look of incredulous amusement spread across his face. He stepped closer, his height casting a shadow over her.

"A divorce?" he scoffed, his voice low and mocking. "Don't be ridiculous."

He reached out and patted her shoulder as if brushing away a piece of lint. "You're being emotional. Go buy a new bag or something. We'll talk when you're less hysterical."

He didn't believe her. He didn't even consider it a possibility. To him, her pain, her resolve, was just a woman's tantrum.

He turned his back on her, slid into the backseat of the car, and was gone.

The black Bentley disappeared down the long drive, leaving Alex standing alone in the crisp morning air.

Alex sneered coldly. He thought her desire for a divorce was just a hysterical fit that a shopping trip could cure. But the truth was far from it. She would prove it through her actions, and make him feel the pain firsthand—an eye for an eye.