The night I found out I was pregnant was the same night my husband chose another woman.
I was standing outside the private lounge of the Grand Royale Hotel, my hand pressed flat against my stomach as if that could stop my world from breaking. Inside, laughter spilled through the half-open door—his laugh among them. Familiar. Warm. Wrong.
"Congratulations, Adrian," a woman said sweetly. "You deserve happiness."
My husband's voice followed, low and steady. "Thank you. I do."
Happiness.
Not us. Not me.
I stepped closer, every breath heavy, just in time to see him lift a champagne glass. Beside him stood Lina—my best friend—her hand resting on his arm like it belonged there.
The room erupted in cheers.
Someone shouted, "To the future Mrs. Blackwood!"
My vision blurred.
I didn't remember walking away, only the cold night air slapping my face and the sound of my heels cracking against the pavement as I ran. My phone vibrated in my hand, the hospital message glowing on the screen.
Congratulations. Your test is positive.
I laughed then—soft, broken, almost hysterical.
Because apparently, the universe had jokes.
Behind me, the hotel doors swung open.
"Amara!"
I froze.
His voice still did that to me. Still pulled at places I hadn't managed to close off yet.
I turned slowly.
Adrian stood there, his perfect suit, his familiar eyes—eyes that had sworn to love me forever. His gaze dropped to my face, then lower, lingering just a second too long on my stomach.
Something flickered in his expression.
Suspicion.
Hope.
Fear.
"Why are you here?" he asked.
I swallowed, lifting my chin.
"I came to tell you goodbye," I said. "But congratulations. I see I'm too late."
He frowned. "Goodbye to what?"
To us.
To the baby you'll never know.
To the woman who loved you first.
But I smiled instead.
"Everything."
And I walked away before he could ask the one question that would change all our lives.