Chapter 1

By the time Callum arrived, our fifth-anniversary dinner had been sitting under silver covers for twenty minutes.

The tiny white baby socks in my purse had been there even longer.

I had wrapped them in a small blue box before leaving home, then rewritten the card three times.

Happy anniversary. You’re going to be a father.

Callum hurried toward our table, loosening his tie. “I’m sorry. A customer wouldn’t stop arguing over his financing.”

He kissed my cheek and sat across from me.

For a moment, everything felt normal.

He smiled at the candles and reached across the table for my hand. “Five years.”

“Five years,” I repeated.

My fingers slipped toward my purse.

Then his phone rang.

Sloane’s name lit the screen.

Callum’s smile disappeared. He answered immediately.

“Sloane?”

Her voice was loud enough for me to hear.

“I’m sorry. I know tonight is your anniversary.”

Glass shattered somewhere behind her. A man shouted, followed by another voice telling him to calm down.

Callum sat straighter. “What happened?”

“A drunk customer started a fight. He shoved me into the bar.” Her breath caught. “It’s my leg, but I’m fine. The police are already here.”

“Can you stand?”

There was a pause.

“Go back to Claire,” Sloane whispered. “Please. I shouldn’t have called. One of the bartenders can stay with me.”

Callum was already reaching for his car keys.

I closed my hand around the gift box inside my purse.

“The police are there,” I said. “And she has employees with her.”

“She’s hurt.”

“She said she was fine.”

“You heard her voice.”

“Yes.” I looked directly at him. “I also heard her say the police were handling it.”

He pushed back his chair.

Around us, couples turned toward the scraping sound. The waiter carrying our champagne stopped a few feet away.

“Callum.” I kept my voice low. “I need you to stay.”

His expression tightened, as if I had asked him to do something cruel.

“She saved my life, Claire. She ruined her leg pulling me out of that car. I can’t abandon her when she needs me.”

“You’re abandoning me.”

“This isn’t a competition.”

“I didn’t make it one.”

He picked up his coat. “I thought you understood.”

That hurt more than if he had shouted.

For eight years, understanding had meant canceled plans, interrupted dinners and Sloane’s name glowing on his phone after midnight.

Tonight, it meant sitting alone while the father of my unborn child ran to another woman.

“I’ll be back soon,” he promised.

I watched him walk out before I could tell him there would be three of us at our next anniversary.

The waiter quietly removed Callum’s untouched plate.

At closing time, he asked whether I wanted to keep waiting.

“No,” I said. “My husband got held up.”

Even then, I was still making excuses for him.

At home, Callum sent one message.

She’s badly shaken. Taking her home.

I replied, Are you coming back?

He never answered.

Just before sunrise, Sloane posted a photograph.

She was curled on her couch in Callum’s coat, both hands wrapped around a mug of tea. Part of his arm appeared at the edge of the picture.

The caption read:

Eight years ago, I pulled him out of the fire. Tonight, he still refused to let me face my fear alone. Some debts can never be repaid.

My husband still hadn’t come home.

The baby socks were still in my purse.

And another woman had just told the whole town that Callum belonged to her for life.