Chapter 3

Mercy Hospital’s waiting room smelled like lemon cleaner and unspoken dread.

I kept my head down, hoodie up, sunglasses on despite the fluorescent lights. No one here knew me. No one had to.

Except him.

Andrew Drake.

I froze mid-step.

He strolled through the double doors like a VIP guest star—pressed shirt, hand resting on the lower back of a tall brunette in stilettos. They were laughing. Her hand lingered on his chest like it belonged there.

My stomach twisted harder than morning sickness ever could.

I turned away, heart hammering. The appointment card in my purse cut into my fingers. Room 207. Ultrasound.

I didn’t move.

I stared at the wall clock for thirty full seconds, then bolted.

Outside, the sun was too bright, the sky too blue. I walked. Fast. No direction, just away. My flats blistered my heels before I even crossed the third block, but I didn’t stop.

Not until I reached the riverwalk.

There, I ripped the appointment card in half, then in half again, until the pieces were tiny and pitiful and shaking in my hand.

He had someone.

Of course he did.

Why wouldn’t he?

He was Andrew Drake—architect prodigy, media darling, professional charmer.

I was Fiona Hayes. Checklist girl. Oops.

A seagull shrieked above. I wished I could.

When I finally dragged myself home, I collapsed on the couch and Googled “how to be a single mom” like it was just another project brief.

Budget calculators. Morning workout videos with smiling women. A forum thread titled *‘How to tell your ex he’s not the father if he’s already someone else’s boyfriend.’*

I shut the laptop.

Stared at the ceiling.

Listened to my heartbeat thudding like a metronome out of sync.

The shredded appointment slip still poked out of my coat pocket.

I left it there.

Like a reminder.

Like a wound.