Chapter 1

On our fifth anniversary, I held the positive pregnancy test we' d prayed for. I cooked his favorite meal, but my husband, Dante, never came home.

He was working late with his campaign manager, Kamala. The stress of his cold texts and her smug Instagram post sent a sharp, twisting pain through my stomach. I collapsed on the floor, bleeding.

When I called him from the hospital, he accused me of faking it for attention.

"What is it this time? A headache?" he sneered. "You'll do anything for attention, won't you?"

The next day, he dragged me to a party to celebrate Kamala. In front of everyone, he tried to force whiskey down my throat. The stress, the fall... it was too much. I lost our miracle baby right there on the gallery floor.

His apology was bringing me pepperoni pizza in my hospital bed. I'm allergic to pepperoni. It was the first thing I ever told him on our first date. He didn't remember that, but he knew Kamala preferred oat milk in her lattes.

He had just proven he didn't deserve our child. He didn't even deserve me.

When he finally showed up, his face a mask of fake concern, I looked him dead in the eye. "We're done. I want a divorce."

Chapter 1

Eliza Todd POV:

I had the positive pregnancy test in my hand, the one we' d prayed for over five long years, on the night I realized my husband would never love me.

The ribeye steak was seared to a perfect medium-rare, resting on a bed of garlic mashed potatoes. A single candle flickered between two glasses of Cabernet, casting a warm glow across our small dining table. Everything was perfect. Exactly as he liked it.

I took a picture, the soft light making the meal look like something out of a magazine, and sent it to him.

My caption was simple: Happy Anniversary. I' m waiting for you.

My phone buzzed almost instantly. A knot of hopeful excitement tightened in my chest. Maybe he' d remembered after all. Maybe he was just outside the door.

Dante: Can't make it. Kamala and I are finalizing the transport initiative speech. Big donor meeting tomorrow.

My fingers went cold. The hopeful knot in my chest dissolved, replaced by a familiar, hollow ache.

Me: It' s our anniversary, Dante.

Dante: I know, babe. I' m sorry. We' ll celebrate this weekend. I promise. This is just too important.

I stared at the screen, reading his words over and over. This is just too important. More important than five years of marriage. More important than the promise he' d made last week to be home on time tonight, no matter what.

A bitter laugh escaped my lips. I stood up, scraped the entire contents of his plate-the perfectly cooked steak, the creamy potatoes-into the trash can. The scrape of the fork against the ceramic was loud in the silence of the empty apartment.

He hadn't forgotten our anniversary. He had simply chosen to ignore it. Just like he' d ignored my birthday last month, sending flowers with a card signed by his assistant.

But he never forgot anything for Kamala Wong. He knew she preferred oat milk in her lattes, that she was allergic to shellfish, that her favorite pen was a Pilot G2, 0.5 millimeter, black ink. He knew these tiny, insignificant details about his campaign manager, while I wasn' t even important enough for a phone call.

My eyes fell on the white stick lying on the granite countertop. The two pink lines were stark, undeniable. After years of clinical appointments, invasive procedures, and heartbreaking negatives, it had finally happened. Naturally. A one-in-a-million chance, the doctor had said. A miracle.

I had planned to tell him tonight, to slide the positive test across the table as he took his first bite of steak. I imagined his face lighting up, the surprise and joy washing away the tired lines of stress from his face. I imagined him pulling me into his arms, the way he used to.

My phone buzzed again. It wasn't Dante. It was an Instagram notification. A new post from Kamala Wong.

My hand trembled as I opened the app. It was a picture of them in his office, heads bent close together over a pile of papers. Dante was smiling, a genuine, relaxed smile I hadn't seen directed at me in months. The caption read: Burning the midnight oil with the next mayor of this city. Some things are worth the sacrifice. #DanteForMayor #MakingHistory

The coffee cup on the desk next to him was the one I' d bought him for Christmas. The one he' d said was too sentimental for the office.

I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, that they were together. Maybe not physically, not yet. But emotionally, he had already left me for her. He had traded my quiet, unwavering support for her ruthless, brilliant ambition.

My stomach churned, a wave of nausea so intense it made my head spin. I had to eat. For the baby. Our baby.

I forced myself to sit down in front of my own plate, the food now looking cold and unappetizing. I picked up my fork and took a bite. The rich flavor of the steak, which should have been a delight, coated my tongue like ash.

The smell-the garlic, the seared meat, the wine-suddenly became overwhelming. I pushed my chair back, my hand flying to my mouth as a violent gag reflex took over.

A sharp, twisting knot tightened deep in my belly. It wasn't the dull ache of neglect I was used to; this was a physical, searing pain. I doubled over, my breath catching in my throat.

I stumbled towards the bathroom, my vision blurring at the edges. Another cramp, more vicious than the last, sent me crashing against the hallway wall. I slid down to the floor, my whole body trembling.

When I looked down at my hands, I saw it. A slick, warm wetness seeping through the fabric of my dress.

A smear of crimson.

No. No, no, no.

The miracle. Our one-in-a-million chance.

I had to protect it. I had to get to the hospital.

I tried to push myself up, but my limbs felt heavy, useless. The pain was a relentless wave, pulling me under. I reached for my phone, my fingers fumbling against the screen. I needed to call 911. I needed help.

But the screen was dark, my reflection a pale, terrified mask. The pain crested again, and a scream tore from my throat, raw and animalistic. I curled into a ball on the cold hardwood floor, clutching my stomach.

The smell of the anniversary dinner I had so carefully prepared wafted from the kitchen, a cruel mockery of the life I thought we were building.

My fingers brushed against the door to the hallway. I clawed at it, trying to pull myself out, to get help. My vision was tunneling.

Just as the darkness threatened to swallow me whole, the door to the apartment across the hall creaked open.

"Eliza? Are you okay?"

It was my neighbor, Jace. I barely knew him, just polite hellos in the elevator.

I couldn't form words. I could only look at him, my eyes pleading, as another wave of agony ripped through me and the world went black.

I woke up to the sterile scent of antiseptic and the rhythmic beep of a machine. A doctor with kind eyes was standing over me.

"Mrs. Williams," she said, her voice gentle. "You have a threatened miscarriage. We've given you something to stop the contractions, but you need to be on complete bed rest. No stress. Absolutely no stress."

I nodded, the tears I hadn't realized I was crying sliding down my temples and into my hair.

"Is your husband on his way?" she asked, her gaze sweeping the empty room. "He should be here. You'll need his support."

A dry, hacking sob escaped my lips.

He's where he always is. Somewhere more important.

"You need to call him," the doctor said, her voice gentle but firm. "Right now."

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