Chapter 1

On the night of our third wedding anniversary, I discovered that my firefighter husband had spent the past year playing Daddy to another woman's little girl.

The child was seven years old—the same girl he had carried out of a four-alarm fire and turned into the city's favorite rescue story.

What Brennan did not know was that I was ten weeks pregnant.

An hour earlier, I had sat in the front row of the Grand Plaza ballroom, watching the mayor pin a Medal of Valor to my husband's dress uniform.

Brennan looked magnificent under the stage lights. Broad-shouldered, sharp-jawed, and steady. The city newspaper had projected the front-page story onto the massive overhead screens:

City Hero: Firefighter Brennan Cole Rescues Seven-Year-Old Girl from Four-Alarm Blaze.

In the photograph, Brennan carried seven-year-old Eve Carter down a ladder against a backdrop of smoke and amber flames.

The crowd had given him a standing ovation.

I had cheered until my throat was raw, resting one hand against my still-flat stomach, waiting for the moment I could bring him upstairs and show him the surprise I had hidden for him.

Ten weeks.

After two years of trying, we were finally going to be parents.

When we walked through our front door, Brennan loosened his tie and kissed my forehead.

"I need a quick shower, Scar," he murmured, smelling faintly of citrus cologne and starch. "My back is killing me from that parade gear. Then we celebrate us, okay?"

"Take your time," I replied softly.

He set his phone on the marble island and walked toward the master bathroom.

A few seconds later, at 10:15 p.m., the screen lit up with a text message.

The sender was saved as Sloane Carter.

Eve is crying in bed, the preview read. She won't go to sleep until she knows when Daddy is coming home to tuck her in.

My breath caught in my throat.

Daddy?

I stared at the screen, telling myself it was a misunderstanding. Eve was seven. Her biological father had passed away years ago. Perhaps Brennan had become an uncle figure to the traumatized little girl he pulled from the fire.

I touched the screen and entered Brennan's passcode.

His message thread with Sloane was pinned to the top. Brennan had never changed his passcode. He trusted me too much - or believed I trusted him too completely.

I scrolled upward.

"Don't forget Eve's peanut allergy when you pack her lunch for the zoo tomorrow."

"I bought the cough syrup the pediatrician recommended. I'll bring it over after shift."

"Eve was so proud seeing you in the front row for her first-grade graduation. She told everyone her dad is the bravest firefighter in the world."

Sloane: I saw Scarlett's anniversary post. She looked beautiful.

Brennan: Don't start.

Sloane: Eve has been waiting for you all day. Don't make her wait too.

My hands began to shake.

For twelve months-three hundred and sixty-five days-my husband had lived a parallel life.

He had attended parent-teacher conferences. He had taken Eve to emergency room visits for childhood fevers. He had spent his off-duty Saturdays assembling dollhouses and teaching a little girl how to ride a bicycle.

Then I opened the photo attachments.

There was Brennan, sitting on the carpet of an unfamiliar, sunlit living room, holding Eve on his shoulders while Sloane smiled beside them.

Underneath, Sloane had written:

My favorite firefighter. Our hero.

The bathroom door clicked open.

Steam curled into the hallway.

I quickly turned off the phone and returned it to the island.

Brennan walked into the kitchen with a towel around his neck, smiling warmly at me.

"What were you looking at, baby?"

I looked at the man I had loved for five years, but for the first time, I couldn't recognize his face.

"Nothing," I said quietly. "Just checking the time."