I never told my husband that I was the discreet, multimillionaire owner of the company he was celebrating that night.

—Estoy cuidando sola de dos recién nacidos, Liam —respondí.

“No tengo ayuda nocturna.”

I have no recovery time.

I don’t have—”

“That’s your problem,” he cut in.

“Or maybe it’s just laziness.

You smell like milk, your dress barely fits, and you’re embarrassing me.”

He leaned closer then, lowering his voice the way men do when they want their contempt to feel private and therefore somehow less criminal.

“I’m building something important here,” he said.

“I’m trying to impress the Owner, and you’re standing here reminding me of every bad decision I’ve ever made.”