Chapter 1

The doctor smiled, a kind, professional smile.

"Congratulations, Mrs. Davenport. You're pregnant."

The words hung in the small clinic room, a community clinic I' d chosen for its anonymity, not the kind of place the Davenports usually frequented.

A small, fragile hope bloomed in my chest, a warmth spreading through me.

It was our second wedding anniversary, though Ethan probably wouldn't remember.

This baby, a secret I now held, was from that one night, a few months back.

A rare night when the carefully constructed walls between us had crumbled, just for a few hours.

He' d been surprisingly tender, almost like the Ethan I sometimes glimpsed, the one I' d quietly hoped for.

Now, this. A baby. Our baby.

Maybe this could change things, I thought, a flicker of anticipation lighting up the grey landscape of our marriage.

My quiet hope shattered almost immediately.

Walking out of the examination room, my mind still reeling with the news, I saw him.

Ethan.

He was in the waiting area, not for me, but with Chloe Vanderbilt.

Chloe, his college sweetheart, the one he never quite got over.

She was leaning heavily on his arm, a picture of dramatic distress.

My stomach twisted, the fragile joy from moments ago curdling into a familiar dread.

She' d been back in Boston for three months, and her presence was a constant shadow.

Ethan finally looked up, saw me standing there.

His eyes, usually warm when he wasn' t guarded, flickered with something I couldn't name, then settled into a cool dismissal.

Chloe was moaning softly, one hand pressed to her temple.

"Oh, Ethan, this ocular migraine is just unbearable. The lights, the noise..."

He fussed over her, his voice laced with concern. "Just hold on, Chloe. We' ll get you out of here."

He barely acknowledged me, just a curt nod.

"Sarah," he said, his tone all business, "Chloe needs a specific imported tea. It' s the only thing that helps her migraines. Go to that deli, the one on Charles Street, and get it for her. The Silver Needle."

He didn't ask, he instructed.

Like I was an assistant, not his wife.

Not the woman who had just found out she was carrying his child.

The power imbalance was stark, Chloe the damsel, Ethan her knight, and me, the errand girl.

Our marriage was a pact, an arrangement.

I knew that.

A flashback, sharp and clear, to two years ago.

Ethan's grandmother, a formidable matriarch, was dying.

Her last wish was to see Ethan settled.

My mentor, Eleanor, her closest friend, had gently pushed me forward.

Sarah Miller, the quiet archivist, stable, kind, suitable.

Ethan, still raw from Chloe abruptly leaving him for a "career opportunity" in Paris, had agreed.

A marriage of convenience.

On our wedding day, he' d handed me the prenuptial agreement.

His signature was already on the divorce settlement page.

"A partnership, Sarah," he' d said, his voice devoid of warmth. "With a clear exit strategy. You'll get a fair share of assets accumulated during our marriage if it ends."

I' d signed, valuing the stability he offered, a stark contrast to my foster care upbringing.

And I' d secretly hoped. Hoped that this man, with his easy charm and hidden vulnerabilities, might one day feel something more.

Chloe, ever the actress, let out a small, pained whimper, interrupting my thoughts.

She glanced at me, a flicker of triumph in her eyes before she hid it behind a mask of suffering.

"Oh, Sarah, you're still here? Ethan, darling, I really need that tea."

Her voice was syrupy sweet, but the underlying message was clear: you' re irrelevant.

I felt a surge of frustration.

She was subtly, or not so subtly, challenging my place.

My rightful place, as his wife.

"Actually, Ethan," I said, my voice firmer than I expected, "I can't go to the deli right now. I have my own appointment to get to."

It wasn't entirely a lie, I needed to process, to think.

He frowned, annoyance clear on his face.

"Sarah, don't be difficult. Chloe is in pain."

He was publicly prioritizing her, making me feel small, insignificant.

The request wasn' t just demeaning, it was a dismissal of me, of us.

"She can wait," I said, my voice low but steady. "Or you can get it for her. I'm not your assistant, Ethan."

His eyes narrowed. "This isn't the time, Sarah. We have an agreement, remember? A partnership. Sometimes partners help each other out, especially when an old friend is in distress."

He was using our pre-arranged, loveless marriage against me, dismissing my feelings entirely.

The betrayal stung, sharp and deep.

This was it. The breaking point.

A silent, internal decision clicked into place.

I looked at him, at Chloe clinging to his arm, and a cold calm settled over me.

"You're right, Ethan," I said, my voice devoid of emotion. "We do have an agreement."

I turned and walked away, leaving them in the sterile waiting room, the scent of antiseptic suddenly overwhelming.

I was done. Done hoping. Done trying.