Chapter 1

On Christmas Day, lingerie my husband had bought for another woman was delivered to our home by mistake.

Just before the package arrived, my phone lit up with a message from Julian.

“Baby, I’m sorry. Something came up at work, and I have to stay late tonight. I won’t make it home for Christmas. I promise we’ll celebrate properly when I have some time. Get some rest, and don’t stay up waiting for me.”

I smiled at the screen.

For seven years, I had learned to believe him.

When he worked late, I waited.

When he traveled, I left the porch light on.

And when he missed another anniversary dinner, I told myself that successful men simply had too much on their minds.

This Christmas, I had decided not to complain.

Because I had a secret of my own.

Eight weeks pregnant.

I had spent the afternoon imagining his face when I told him.

I had even bought a tiny pair of white baby socks and hidden them beneath the Christmas tree.

Then the doorbell rang.

A courier from the luxury boutique stood outside holding a heavy black-and-gold gift box.

“Delivery for Julian Sterling.”

I signed for it and carried the package inside.

For a moment, I wondered if Julian had finally remembered the things he used to do when we were newly married.

Back then, he had known my size, remembered my favorite perfume, and once driven forty minutes through a snowstorm because I mentioned craving a particular dessert.

I opened the box.

Inside was a set of scarlet French lace lingerie.

Size two.

Not my size.

My smile disappeared.

Julian had not bought me anything that intimate in years.

After seven years of marriage, he barely remembered what size I wore.

A gold-foil card lay beneath the tissue paper.

His unmistakable signature appeared at the bottom.

“To my sweetest haven, Bianca. I can’t wait to see you wearing this on Christmas. You’ll look beautiful.”

I read it twice.

Then I looked at the tiny baby socks beneath the tree.

They suddenly looked ridiculous.

Beside the gift box lay the ultrasound report I had brought home from the hospital that morning.

The grainy image confirmed what I had been too happy to say aloud.

My fingers tightened around the report until the paper creased.

For seven years, I had built my life around this man.

And tonight, while I was preparing to give him a child, he was buying lingerie for another woman.

I pressed one hand against my stomach.

“I’m sorry this is the family you’re coming into,” I whispered.

Beneath the card was a gift receipt bearing Bianca’s name.

Julian must have left our home selected as the default shipping address.

One careless click had delivered his secret to my door.

I photographed the lingerie, the card, the receipt, and the shipping label.

Then I placed everything back exactly as I had found it.

I did not call Julian.

I did not ask who Bianca was.

I picked up my phone and called a family-law firm’s after-hours intake line.

“Haven and Cole. This is Catherine.”

“My name is Elena Vance,” I said.

“I need to arrange a consultation about a divorce.”