Chapter 3

The following week, I left the Planned Parenthood clinic feeling hollowed out, a ghost in my own skin. The world seemed muted, the colors washed out. I was pale, emotionally drained, and all I wanted was to go home and crawl into bed.

As I walked toward my car, a familiar Range Rover pulled into the parking lot.

Andrew. And Maria.

My blood ran cold. Of course. They were here for her first ultrasound. The universe had a sick sense of humor.

Andrew saw me and his face filled with concern. He started to get out of the car. "Stella? What are you doing here? Are you okay? You look so pale."

Before I could answer, Maria let out a little moan from the passenger seat. "Andrew, I feel dizzy," she whimpered, pressing a hand to her forehead. "The morning sickness is just awful today."

His attention snapped back to her. He hesitated for a second, his eyes flicking between us. It was a choice. Me, looking unwell and alone, or his pregnant, fragile wife.

He chose her.

"I'll call you later, Stella," he said, turning his back on me to help Maria out of the car. He wrapped a protective arm around her as he escorted her toward the clinic entrance, his head bent low, listening to her complaints.

I stood there and watched them go, the new family unit. He didn't look back.

That night, the confirmation I didn't need but got anyway appeared on my Instagram feed. Maria posted a black-and-white photo of a sonogram.

The caption read: "Daddy and I can't wait to meet you, little one."

She tagged Andrew.

The first comment, posted within seconds, was from his mother, Eleanor. "Grandma is already knitting your first booties! A true Scott heir."

Then the floodgates opened. Comments from his aunts, his cousins, his entire goddamn family, all congratulating them, all celebrating the "Scott heir."

They all knew. Every single one of them. They were all in on it.

I felt a strange, cold calm settle over me. The grief was still there, a hard knot in my chest, but now it was joined by something else: resolve.

I spent the next hour packing. I gathered every single thing Andrew owned from my apartment. His expensive clothes, his collection of wine books, the antique corkscrew his father had given him. I carefully wrapped the Scott family heirlooms he' d given me-a pearl necklace, a diamond bracelet-and placed them in a box. Lastly, I took off my engagement ring, a beautiful cushion-cut diamond that now felt like a shackle, and dropped it on top.

For the next week, I ignored his calls. When he texted, frantic, I replied with a simple, clean lie.

"Have a terrible flu. Need to rest and get better before the wedding. Don't want to get you sick."

He bought it completely, telling me to rest up, that he loved me, that he couldn't wait to see me walking down the aisle.

The irony was so thick I could have choked on it.

Oh, he would see a bride walk down the aisle. It just wouldn't be me.