Chapter 3

Corinne Preston POV:

The Chilean fellowship was a lifeline, a gleaming thread of hope woven into the fabric of my despair. When Dr. Perkins at the Atacama Large Millimeter/submillimeter Array confirmed my acceptance, I didn't hesitate. The email reply was sent within minutes. This was it. My escape.

I still thought about that last night Arlo was in my bed. That desperate, fleeting moment of physical comfort, followed by the crushing nausea. It was a stark reminder of how little true intimacy we shared, how easily the physical could be mistaken for the emotional. He wanted a body next to him; I craved a soul. And in that moment, I realized exactly how little of himself he had ever truly given me.

With the fellowship secured, I began the meticulous process of shedding my old life. The house was too large, too full of ghosts. I cleared out my study, packing only the essentials: my research notes, my most cherished books, a few faded photographs of my parents. The rest, the designer clothes, the expensive jewelry, the grand furniture-it all belonged to the "Corinne Hatfield" I was leaving behind.

My lawyer had assured me the divorce proceedings were moving swiftly, thanks to Arlo' s signature on what he believed was a grant application. The final decree would be delivered after I was gone.

As I sifted through a dusty old keepsake box, my fingers brushed against a small, velvet-covered album. Our wedding album. I pulled it out. On the cover, our names, embossed in gold, mocked me. Arlo & Corinne. The paper was stiff, the images inside glossy and artificial, just like our marriage. We stood stiffly, smiling for the cameras, two strangers bound by a contract.

I lifted a page. Arlo, looking impossibly handsome, his eyes distant even then. Me, radiant but fragile, clinging to a hope that was never real. With a detached sense of finality, I tore the album in half, then into smaller pieces. The sound of ripping paper was surprisingly satisfying, a cathartic release. I watched the fragments flutter into the waste bin.

Corinne Hatfield was dead. Long live Corinne Preston.

Weeks blurred into a dizzying cycle of paperwork, farewells, and the quiet, almost clinical process of dismantling a life. I immersed myself in my work, in planning my new trajectory, leaving no room for thoughts of Arlo or his "rekindled romance." I tried not to think of them, and for the most part, I succeeded.

Until one afternoon. My phone buzzed. An unknown number. I almost let it go to voicemail, but some instinct told me not to. "Corinne?" Arlo's voice, surprisingly hesitant, came through the speaker. "I'm outside your lab. Can you come down?"

My blood ran cold. He knew where I worked. Of course he knew. He knew everything, controlled everything. My heart hammered against my ribs. What did he want? Had he figured it out? Was the divorce discovered?

I walked out, my spine rigid. He was leaning against his gleaming black sedan, looking impossibly handsome in an expensive suit, his dark hair catching the light. He looked a little thinner, a little more tired, but no less formidable. The sharp, clean scent of his cologne, a memory that still clung to my senses, hit me as I approached.

"Arlo," I said, keeping my voice neutral.

"Get in," he commanded, opening the passenger door. There was no room for argument, no question. It was a directive.

I slid into the plush leather seat. The familiar scent of him, the faint lingering sweetness of Brielle' s perfume, assaulted my senses.

"Where are you going?" he asked, his voice low, as he pulled smoothly away from the curb.

I decided on a half-truth. The truth he already suspected. "Chile. For the fellowship. I told you."

He nodded slowly. "Right. The 'grant application'." A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Brielle said you'd probably just go back to your old life, your books and your stars. She said you were always too focused on the abstract."

My jaw tightened. Brielle. Always Brielle.

"She's leaving, you know," Arlo continued, his eyes focused on the road. "Going back to California. Her venture capital firm needs her."

I said nothing. My silence was a wall. I felt him glance at me, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. His hands tightened on the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white. He obviously expected a reaction, a flicker of hope, perhaps. There was none. My indifference was absolute.

He cleared his throat, tried to speak, then stopped. The silence stretched, heavy and awkward, between us.

I closed my eyes, feigning sleep. My body was truly weary, but my mind was in overdrive. I was free. Almost. Just a few more days. Just a few more hours.

The nausea returned with a vengeance. It wasn't just in the mornings anymore. It was a constant, low-grade hum, punctuated by sharp, debilitating waves. My aversion to certain foods became extreme-the smell of coffee made my stomach revolt, and I found myself craving strangely specific things, like pickles and ice cream, at odd hours.

My period was now weeks late. My meticulous contraception, which I had never once missed, suddenly seemed to mock me. A terrifying uncertainty began to bloom into a dreadful certainty.

I bought a home pregnancy test. Then two. Then three. The pink lines, stark and undeniable, stared back at me. Positive.

My hands began to tremble uncontrollably. I was pregnant. Arlo's child. My divorce, my fellowship, my carefully constructed escape plan-all of it now hung precariously in the balance.

I fumbled for my phone, my fingers flying across the screen, dialing Arlo's number. My heart was pounding, a frantic drum against my ribs. I needed to tell him. I had to tell him.

As the phone rang, a familiar, distinctive ringtone, one I had set for Arlo years ago, suddenly chimed nearby. Not from my phone. From down the hall. From Brielle's temporary room.

My blood ran cold. He was here. At the mansion. With her.

I slammed my phone down, cutting the call before it connected. My breath caught in my throat. I couldn't face him. Not now. Not like this.

I heard muffled voices from Brielle' s room, then Arlo' s voice, low and gentle. And a doctor' s voice. Concerned. "...high-risk pregnancy... needs absolute rest..."

High-risk pregnancy? My mind reeled. Brielle was pregnant too?

I crept closer, my heart in my mouth. Brielle' s voice, weak and fragile, drifted through the slightly ajar door. "Arlo... are you sure you're still happy about this? About us?"

"Of course, my love," Arlo' s voice, so tender it punched a hole through my chest, replied. "More than anything. This baby... it's everything."

My world tilted. The air left my lungs in a ragged gasp. I stumbled backward, knocking into a passing nurse' s cart. A clatter of metal, a vial of something shattering on the floor.

"Mrs. Hatfield!" the nurse exclaimed, startled.

Arlo' s head snapped up. His eyes, full of a tenderness I had never seen directed at me, now narrowed, sharp and cold. "Corinne? What are you doing here?" He stepped out of Brielle's room, a protective stance.

"I... I wasn't feeling well. Thought I might have a fever," I stammered, clutching my stomach, the nausea returning with full force. A pathetic lie.

Brielle, now at Arlo's side, her face pale but her eyes sharp, peered at me with what she clearly intended as concern. "Corinne, darling, are you alright? You look a bit green. Perhaps too much late-night stargazing? You know, you really should take better care of yourself. Especially now." She paused, a glint in her eye. "Arlo and I just got the most wonderful news. Our little one is doing so well." She held up a glossy ultrasound photo, a blurry smudge on the film.

My gaze locked onto the image, my eyes burning. A tiny fetus, a nascent life. It was a mirror of my own secret, a cruel twist of fate. A profound wave of despair washed over me.

Arlo started forward, a flicker of something-confusion? guilt?-in his eyes. "Corinne, I... "

Brielle quickly put a hand on his arm, her voice soft but firm. "Darling, the doctor said you need to conserve your energy. And you have that call with the Tokyo office in an hour. Corinne will understand." She whispered something in his ear, a possessive, knowing gesture. Arlo's shoulders tensed, then relaxed. He looked at me, a conflicted expression on his face, but he didn't move.

My chest constricted, a dull ache spreading through me. He was hers. Completely. And their child, even if it was a lie, was his focus.

I turned and fled, my vision blurring. I heard Arlo call my name, a faint, desperate sound, followed by Brielle' s sharp, "Arlo, no! The doctor said-" The elevator doors slid shut, sealing me away from them, from my husband, from the shattering reality.

Outside, the cold night air hit me, but I barely felt it. I felt only a profound, desolate numbness. My flight to Chile was in two days. The grant, the dream, the new life-it was all still there. But now, I wasn't just escaping a loveless marriage. I was escaping a betrayal so deep it threatened to consume me. And now, I was pregnant. With Arlo's child. A child he didn't know about, a child he had unknowingly sacrificed for a lie.

I clutched my stomach, a protective instinct warring with a desperate fear. I was alone. Utterly, terrifyingly alone. And I had nowhere left to go but forward.