Chapter 1

The sound of zippers and rustling fabric greeted me as I pushed open the apartment door, my hand instinctively moving to cradle the gentle swell of my belly. Five months along, and I still felt a flutter of excitement each time I came home, imagining Carson's face lighting up when he saw me.

Instead, I found him hunched over an open suitcase on our bed, methodically folding shirts with the same detached efficiency he used for everything else these days.

"Going somewhere?" The question slipped out before I could stop it, though my heart already knew the answer.

Carson didn't look up. "Violette needs help with Tyler's school enrollment. The private schools have these complicated interviews, and she's still emotional from her breakup. I can't just leave her to handle it alone."

The words hit me like ice water. "What about our wedding planning meeting tomorrow? We've rescheduled twice already."

"We'll figure it out when I get back." He finally glanced at me, his expression already defensive. "This is important, Skylar. Tyler's future is at stake."

"And what about our baby's future?" My voice cracked despite my efforts to stay calm. "What about our future?"

Carson's jaw tightened. "Don't be dramatic. A few more days won't hurt anything. The wedding will happen."

But as I watched him pack his favorite cologne—the one I'd given him for our anniversary—something cold settled in my chest. When would it happen? When Violette no longer needed him? When Tyler graduated? When hell froze over?

I turned away before he could see the tears threatening to spill. In the hallway, I stopped short at the sight of what used to be our nursery.

The door stood wide open, revealing a child's paradise that had nothing to do with the baby growing inside me. A bright red race car bed dominated the center of the room, surrounded by expensive toys still in their packaging. Building blocks, action figures, and a gaming console I'd never seen before cluttered every surface. The walls, which Carson and I had painted a soft yellow just two months ago, now bore colorful decals of cartoon characters I didn't recognize.

In the corner, still in their unopened boxes, sat the crib and changing table we'd carefully selected together. The mobile I'd fallen in love with—tiny stars and moons that would have danced above our baby's head—lay forgotten beneath a pile of Tyler's new clothes.

"When did you do this?" My voice came out as barely a whisper.

Carson appeared behind me, his footsteps hesitant. "Violette mentioned Tyler needed a proper space when he stays over. Kids need consistency, you know? Stability."

"And our baby?" I turned to face him, my hand pressed protectively against my stomach. "What about our baby's stability?"

"There's time for that later." He wouldn't meet my eyes. "Tyler's here now. He needs this now."

The casual dismissal of our unborn child's needs in favor of another woman's son felt like a physical blow. I stared at the race car bed, at the expensive toys, at the careful thought that had gone into creating this space—thought that had never been given to our own child's room.

"You didn't even ask me."

"I knew you'd understand. You're always so reasonable about these things."

Reasonable. The word tasted bitter in my mouth. When had being understanding become synonymous with being invisible?

Three hours later, I sat in Carson's mother's dining room, surrounded by the suffocating scent of garlic and shellfish. The elaborate spread before me might as well have been poison—lobster thermidor, shrimp scampi, crab cakes, and oysters Rockefeller. Every dish contained something that could send me to the hospital.

Carson sat beside me, enthusiastically discussing Tyler's academic prospects with Violette while I nibbled on dinner rolls, my stomach growling audibly.

"Skylar, you're not eating," Carson's mother observed with false concern. "Don't tell me you're one of those women who stops eating during pregnancy."

"She has a shellfish allergy," Violette said sweetly, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. "Didn't Carson mention it when planning the menu?"

The silence that followed was deafening. Carson's fork paused halfway to his mouth, his face flushing as realization dawned. After two years together, after countless dinners and careful menu planning, he'd forgotten the one dietary restriction that could literally kill me.

"I... I thought you could just avoid the shellfish dishes," he mumbled.

"Everything's been prepared in the same kitchen," I said quietly, touching the pearl necklace at my throat—my mother's necklace, the only thing of value I had left. "Cross-contamination."

Violette reached across the table with theatrical concern, her hand brushing against my necklace. "Oh, how terrible! You must be starv—"

The delicate strand snapped under her touch, pearls scattering across the mahogany table like tears. Some rolled onto the floor with soft plinks that echoed in the sudden silence.

"Oh!" Violette gasped, pressing her hand to her chest. "I'm so sorry! It was an accident!"

But I'd seen the deliberate pressure of her fingers, the calculated timing. As I watched my mother's pearls—her final gift, her blessing—disappear under chairs and into corners, something inside me finally broke too.

"Just an accident," Carson echoed, already moving to comfort Violette's crocodile tears. "These things happen, Skylar. Don't make a big deal out of it."

I stared at him, at this man who'd forgotten my allergy, converted our nursery without asking, and now dismissed the destruction of my most precious possession as if it meant nothing. As if I meant nothing.

Rising from my chair, I felt something shift inside me—not the baby, but something deeper. Something that had been bending and bending until it finally reached its breaking point.

"You're right," I said softly, my voice steady for the first time in months. "These things do happen."

But as I walked toward the door, leaving the scattered pearls and my shattered illusions behind, I knew that some accidents were really choices in disguise. And I was finally ready to make one of my own.