Chapter 2

I didn't go to the window. Instead, I walked to my kitchen and poured myself a glass of expensive red wine, the kind I used to save for special occasions. This was a special occasion. It was the first day of my new life. From my living room, I had a clear, though distant, view of the street corner where Mark had parked his beat-up car. I watched him, a small, frantic figure under a streetlight, fumbling with the baby and his car keys.

The scene played out like a silent movie. I saw him struggle to open the car door while holding the crying Chloe. He was clumsy, inept. He nearly dropped her once, catching the bundle of blankets just in time. This was the man who, along with his daughter, would later accuse me of robbing them of a precious family experience. The irony was so thick I could taste it.

From this distance, I couldn't see Chloe's face, but I could imagine her distress. The cold, the frantic movements of her father, the lack of a warm, stable embrace. She was just a baby, an innocent in this moment, but my heart remained a solid block of ice. I had shed all my tears for her in my last life. There were none left.

Mark finally managed to get the car door open and clumsily placed Chloe in the passenger seat. He didn't have a car seat. Of course, he didn't. That would have required forethought and a small amount of money, two things he severely lacked. He got into the driver's side, and I saw the interior light of the car flicker on and then die. He tried again. Nothing.

His car wouldn't start.

The panic was visible even from my apartment window. He slammed his hands on the steering wheel. I saw his shoulders slump in defeat. He got out of the car, leaving the door ajar, and pulled out his phone. He was probably calling Isabella, the glamorous actress who was likely at some industry party, networking and pretending she didn't have a care in the world.

He stood there talking for a few minutes, his gestures growing more and more agitated. Then, in a fit of pure, childish rage, he threw his phone. It hit the icy pavement and skittered under the car. The only lifeline he had to his partner in crime was now gone, broken by his own temper tantrum.

The situation was escalating from bad to worse, and it was entirely his own doing. He rummaged through his pockets, presumably for money for a payphone or a cab, and came up empty. He was well and truly stuck. On a freezing night, with a dead car, a broken phone, and a screaming baby.

I took a slow sip of my wine. The rich, dark fruit flavor was exquisite. I felt a grim satisfaction watching his self-made disaster unfold. He had come here expecting me to solve all his problems, to take on his burden without question. Now, faced with the first real test of parenthood, he and Isabella were proving to be utterly, hopelessly, and selfishly incompetent.

This was perfect. It was better than I could have planned. They were getting a crash course in the reality they had created for themselves. No one to bail them out. No one to blame but each other. I raised my glass in a silent toast. To consequences.