Chapter 2

I couldn't bring myself to tell Grant about the baby. Not yet. Not when every word from his mouth now felt like a potential lie. How could I share something so precious with someone who had orchestrated my entire life like some twisted playwright?

Instead, I started a journal—hidden in my personal email drafts where he'd never look. Each suspicious call, each unexplained absence, each time his phone lit up with Mallory's name only to be quickly flipped over. I documented everything while maintaining the facade of our perfect marriage.

"I made your favorite tonight," I said one evening, setting down a plate of herb-crusted salmon. My voice sounded normal—practiced normal.

Grant looked up from his phone, a flash of guilt crossing his features before he smiled. "Looks delicious, babe. Thanks."

I wondered if he could see the knowledge in my eyes, the way I cataloged his every expression. Did he notice how I no longer leaned into his touch? How I washed his scent from my skin the moment he left for work?

My hand drifted to my stomach under the table. Six weeks. Our child deserved better than this web of lies.

* * *

"Rose! What a lovely surprise to find you home."

Mallory's voice cut through the quiet afternoon like broken glass. I hadn't heard her key in the lock—the key she'd convinced Grant she needed for "emergencies."

I set down my tea, steeling myself. "Mallory. I didn't know you were coming by."

She glided into my kitchen like she owned it, designer heels clicking against the hardwood. Her eyes—so similar to mine yet somehow colder—swept over me, lingering on my oversized sweater.

"You're looking... comfortable." Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd check on my favorite sister. Grant mentioned you haven't been feeling well lately."

Of course he had. I wondered what else they discussed when I wasn't around.

"Just a stomach bug," I lied, matching her false smile with one of my own.

She ran a manicured finger along the counter, inspecting it for dust. "You know, some women just struggle with keeping their men satisfied." Her gaze locked with mine. "It's not your fault. Some of us just have that special something that men crave. That... deeper connection."

The knife twisted. She knew I knew. This wasn't just gloating—this was a warning.

"Is that why Damon works such long hours?" I countered, watching her smile falter momentarily.

Mallory recovered quickly, her laugh like tinkling glass. "Oh, Rose. Always so naive. Men like Grant—like Damon—they need women who understand their... divided attention. Who accept it."

I felt sick, but not from the pregnancy. From the realization that my sister had been orchestrating my humiliation for years, savoring every moment of it.

"I should go," she said, checking her watch—the diamond-encrusted one I'd seen Grant pricing online months ago. "Give my love to Grant. Though I suppose I'll see him before you do."

The door closed behind her, leaving me alone with the echo of her cruelty and the child growing inside me who would never know such malice.

* * *

"You didn't have to come with me," I said as Grant pulled into the hospital parking lot. "It's just a routine check-up."

He squeezed my hand, the picture of a concerned husband. "Don't be silly. I want to make sure you're okay. This stomach thing has been going on too long."

I nodded, wondering if I should tell him now, in the car, before we went in. The words formed and dissolved on my tongue. Not here. Not yet.

We sat in the sterile waiting room, Grant's knee bouncing with impatience. I watched him check his phone every thirty seconds, his fingers tapping an anxious rhythm on the armrest.

His phone buzzed. I didn't need to see the screen to know who it was.

Grant's face changed, a flash of panic crossing his features. "Rose, I'm so sorry—there's an emergency at work. Johnson is threatening to pull out of the deal."

"Now? Can't someone else handle it?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

"I wish. I really do." He stood, already backing toward the door. "Text me what the doctor says, okay? I'll make it up to you tonight."

And then he was gone, leaving me alone in a room full of strangers, about to confirm a pregnancy I couldn't bring myself to share with my child's father.

As the nurse called my name, I gathered my purse and my dignity, walking forward with my head high. Whatever happened next, I would face it alone—just as I'd been all along.