“She’s too distracted with the pregnancy stuff.”
“Tomorrow. Same place as always.”
My stomach turned so hard I had to press my palm against it, not in dramatic heartbreak, but in actual physical nausea. It wasn’t morning sickness. It was betrayal turning my body inside out.
Then I scrolled to a photo that made my blood stop being ice and start being fire.
A woman’s neck and collarbone. Smooth skin. And a very specific gold crescent moon necklace resting against her throat.
I bought that necklace.
For Harper.
Two months ago, for her birthday, because she’d mentioned loving moon phases and I wanted to give her something meaningful. Something sisterly.
My vision blurred.
My hands shook.
My throat went dry.
Harper.
My sister.
My husband.
My baby.
It all collapsed into one single, sick sentence in my head:
They’ve been doing this while I’ve been building a life inside my body.
The shower shut off down the hall.
I heard Blake moving around—probably admiring himself in the mirror like he always did, checking his hair, his smile, his face that people trusted.
I had maybe thirty seconds before he walked out.
I placed the phone back exactly where it had been.
Exactly.
Same angle. Same spot. Like I’d never touched it.
Then I forced my face into neutral “sleepy pregnant wife” mode, because something primal inside me understood: if he knew I knew, he’d shift into damage control.
And I wasn’t ready for him to control anything.
Blake stepped into the living room with a towel around his waist, water dripping from his hair, smiling like our world wasn’t ending.
“Hey, you,” he said warmly. “How’s my favorite girl?”
I looked him straight in the eyes.
“Tired,” I said.
He sat beside me and rubbed my belly with one hand. “Hang in there, little peanut. Dad’s got you.”
The laugh almost came out of me.
Not a cute laugh. Not an amused one.
A feral, hysterical sound that didn’t belong in a quiet living room.
Instead I swallowed it.
“Can you make me tea?” I asked.
“Of course,” he said easily, like he was the hero in the story. “Anything for you.”
Anything.
Except honesty. Except loyalty. Except the bare minimum of decency.
That night, Blake fell asleep in seconds, one arm draped over me like a claim.
I lay awake staring at the ceiling, one hand on my stomach, feeling my baby’s tiny life inside me and realizing something cold and clear:
If I confronted him privately, he would rewrite the story.
He would cry.
