Chapter 2
A week after the disastrous anniversary dinner, I stood in the grand ballroom of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, a champagne flute clutched in my trembling hand. The Parker Foundation's annual charity gala was in full swing—crystal chandeliers glittering overhead, Manhattan's elite mingling in designer formalwear, and my husband performing his role as the devoted spouse with Oscar-worthy precision.
Ethan's hand rested at the small of my back as we greeted donors, his touch burning through the fabric of my emerald gown. Every smile, every casual brush of his fingers against mine felt like another lie.
"You're doing wonderfully," he whispered, his breath warm against my ear. To anyone watching, we were the picture of marital bliss—the power couple everyone aspired to be.
I excused myself with practiced grace, needing a moment away from his suffocating presence. The ladies' lounge offered temporary sanctuary, its plush seating and soft lighting designed for society women to repair their makeup and share discreet gossip.
I was alone for precisely thirty-seven seconds before the door swung open.
"Mrs. Parker." Maya's voice sliced through the quiet. "What a coincidence."
She wore a form-fitting black dress that showcased her swollen belly, now impossible to hide at five months along. The diamond bracelet on her wrist caught the light—I recognized it instantly as the one Ethan had claimed was "lost in transit" when I'd asked about the missing charge on our credit card statement last month.
"Enjoying the party?" I asked, my voice steady despite the hurricane raging inside me.
Maya's lips curled into a smile as she approached, standing close enough that I could smell her perfume—the same scent I'd occasionally detected on Ethan's shirts.
"Almost as much as I enjoyed last night," she murmured, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Ethan always did have a thing for shower sex. Does he still do that thing where he pins your wrists above your head?"
My stomach lurched, but I refused to give her the satisfaction of seeing me break. Three years of society functions had taught me how to wear a mask.
"You know what I find interesting, Maya?" I replied, applying a fresh coat of lipstick with deliberate calm. "How desperately you need me to know about your relationship with my husband. It makes me wonder who really has his heart."
A flash of uncertainty crossed her features before her smile returned, sharper than before. "Ask yourself who's carrying his child, Olivia. Who will be the mother of the Parker heir while you remain... lacking."
She patted her belly with possessive pride before sauntering out, leaving me alone with the echo of her words.
* * *
The following weekend found us at the Parker family estate in the Hamptons, the ocean breeze doing nothing to cool the simmering tension around the dinner table. Eleanor Parker sat at the head, regal in her Chanel suit despite the casual setting, while William Parker's absence was explained away with vague references to "business in Singapore."
"More wine, Olivia?" Eleanor offered, her smile not reaching her eyes.
"No, thank you," I declined, noticing how she'd already refilled my glass twice while I'd barely touched it.
Ethan was engrossed in conversation with his cousin about some merger, his attention everywhere but on me. The past week had been a masterclass in avoidance—late nights at the office, early morning meetings, anything to prevent a real conversation about what I'd discovered.
"I've been quite busy this week," Eleanor announced during dessert, cutting into her crème brûlée with surgical precision. "The east wing is being renovated."
"What for?" Ethan asked absently.
"Oh, just updating one of the bedrooms." She took a delicate bite before adding, "The nursery, actually."
The table fell silent. Ethan's fork clattered against his plate.
"Mother—" he began, but Eleanor continued as if he hadn't spoken.
"I found the most darling crib in that little boutique in SoHo." Her gaze slid to me, sharp as a scalpel. "At least someone in this family can give the Parkers grandchildren."
The words landed like a physical blow. Three years of fertility treatments, of disappointments, of crying in bathroom stalls after yet another negative test—all thrown in my face with casual cruelty.
I excused myself, claiming a headache. No one followed me upstairs.
* * *
The morning sickness hit me without warning three days later. I barely made it to the bathroom, emptying the contents of my stomach while cold sweat beaded on my forehead. I'd attributed the nausea to stress, to the emotional hell of the past two weeks.
But as I knelt on the marble floor, a different possibility whispered through my mind.
I slipped out that afternoon, taking a taxi to a discreet doctor's office in Manhattan—not my regular physician who might report back to Ethan. The wait was interminable, my thoughts racing between hope and dread.
"Congratulations, Mrs. Parker," the doctor said, reviewing the test results. "You're approximately eight weeks pregnant."
The world tilted on its axis. After years of trying, after being told my chances were slim to none, after enduring Eleanor's barbs and Maya's taunts—I was carrying a child. Ethan's child.
As I stepped out into the bright afternoon sun, one hand instinctively pressed against my still-flat stomach, a strange calm settled over me. This baby was mine. My secret. My strength.
And no one—not Maya, not Eleanor, not even Ethan—would know until I decided what to do next.