Chapter 1

The first contraction hit me like a sledgehammer, a brutal clench deep in my belly that stole my breath.

I stumbled against the cold marble of the kitchen island, my hand flying to the swell of my stomach. Nine months. Almost to the day.

"Ethan," I gasped, the word barely a whisper.

He didn't look up from his phone. He was scrolling through pictures from the pre-CMA party, his thumb moving with a slick, practiced speed. On the screen, Sabrina Chavez glittered in a dress made of what looked like diamonds and moonlight.

"Not now, Jocelyn," he said, his voice flat. "I'm dealing with a crisis."

Another wave of pain seized me, sharper this time. I felt a dampness between my legs.

"Ethan, I think... I think it's the baby. It's too early."

He finally looked at me, but his eyes were cold, annoyed. "A crisis, Jocelyn, means Sabrina's stylist sent the wrong shoes. Not whatever little drama you're cooking up to ruin my night."

My night. Not our night. His night.

Sabrina was nominated for "Song of the Year." The song was "Whiskey-Stained Lies." I wrote it. Every word, every chord, bled from a late night with a cheap guitar and a broken heart. He'd promised me credit, a future. Instead, he gave the song, and apparently himself, to her.

"I'm not faking," I said, my voice trembling. "I fell. Earlier, on the porch steps. Something's wrong."

He sighed, a long, theatrical sound of pure exasperation. He stood up, walked over, and took my phone from the counter. Then he picked up my car keys from the hook by the door.

"You're not going anywhere," he said calmly. "You're going to sit down, drink some water, and stop trying to sabotage the biggest night of my career. Of Sabrina's career."

He gestured around the sterile, white-on-white farmhouse he was so proud of. Isolated. Miles down a private road. No neighbors for a long, long way.

"You always do this," he continued, his voice dropping to that low, reasonable tone he used when he was about to break me. "You get jealous, you get insecure, and you create a problem. You can't stand to see me succeed with someone else."

Tears welled in my eyes. "She stole my song, Ethan."

"She made your song a hit," he corrected. "You should be grateful. Now, I'm going to the awards. I'll be back late. Don't call me unless the house is on fire. And even then, think twice."

He turned and walked out, the door clicking shut behind him, a sound as final as a coffin lid closing. I was alone, trapped, and the pain was getting worse.