Nerissa POV
The pregnancy test burns in my purse like a secret too big to hold.
I grip the steering wheel tighter, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. Two pink lines. After three years of negative tests, tears, and quiet disappointment—finally, two perfect pink lines.
I can't stop smiling.
Today is our seventh wedding anniversary, and I'm about to give Dashiell the one thing we've both wanted since our honeymoon. A baby. Our baby.
I left work early—told my research team at the lab I wasn't feeling well, which isn't exactly a lie. I've been nauseous for a week, exhausted, emotional. I thought it was stress. Turns out, it's the best kind of surprise.
I have everything planned. His favorite wine is in the back seat—the expensive French one he loves but never buys because he says it's wasteful. Dinner reservations at Marcello's, the Italian restaurant where he proposed seven years ago. I even bought a little gift box to put the pregnancy test in, wrapped in silver paper with a bow.
He's going to cry. Dashiell always gets emotional about big moments. When we got married, he sobbed during his vows. When his mom died five years ago, he cried in my arms for hours. He has a soft heart, my husband. That's one of the reasons I fell in love with him.
I pull into our driveway and kill the engine. Our house looks perfect—the white picket fence I painted last summer, the rose bushes blooming pink and red, the welcome mat that says "Home Sweet Home." We bought this house three years ago, right when we started trying for a baby. Dashiell said he wanted our kids to grow up somewhere beautiful.
I grab my purse and the wine, practically floating to the front door. I'm going to surprise him. He works from home most days—he's in marketing, does a lot of computer work. He's probably in his office right now, staring at spreadsheets, bored out of his mind. This will make his whole year.
The front door is unlocked. I push it open quietly, wanting to sneak up on him.
The house is too quiet.
Usually, I can hear his music playing—he likes to work with jazz in the background. But today, there's nothing. Just silence.
"Dashiell?" I call out softly.
No answer.
Maybe he's taking a nap. He's been tired lately, staying up late on his laptop, saying he has big projects at work. I've been so buried in my own research that I haven't paid much attention. Guilt twists in my stomach. I've been a bad wife, haven't I? Too focused on my career, my lab work, my papers. When was the last time we had a real conversation?
But that's going to change now. A baby will bring us closer. Babies fix things, right? They make families stronger.
I set the wine on the kitchen counter and head upstairs, my hand sliding along the banister Dashiell refinished himself two summers ago. I remember watching him work, his shirt off, sweat on his shoulders, looking so proud of himself. He's good with his hands. He'll be such a good dad.
Our bedroom door is closed.
That's weird. We never close it during the day.
I push it open, already smiling, ready to wake him up with kisses and whisper the secret I've been holding for three hours.
The smell hits me first.
Perfume. Sweet, floral, expensive. Not mine.
Then I see them.
Dashiell is in our bed—our bed, the one we picked out together, the one with the ridiculous expensive mattress he insisted we needed—and there's a woman on top of him. A blonde woman with her back to me, her hair spilling down her bare shoulders, moving in a way that makes my brain stop working.
For three full seconds, I can't process what I'm seeing.
This must be wrong. This must be a mistake. This must be—
Dashiell's eyes open. He sees me standing in the doorway.
He doesn't stop. He doesn't push her away. He just stares at me with an expression I've never seen before.
Annoyance.
Like I'm interrupting something important.
The pregnancy test slips from my hand. It hits the hardwood floor with a sharp crack that echoes through the room like a gunshot.
The blonde woman turns around.
I know her.
Marlowe Ashton. Dashiell's college girlfriend. The one he dated for two years before we met. The one he said was "ancient history" and "nothing to worry about." She came to our wedding. She sent us a card when we bought this house.
She's naked in my bed.
With my husband.
On our anniversary.
"Nerissa—" Dashiell starts, finally moving, pushing Marlowe off him.
I can't breathe. The room is spinning. My stomach lurches, and for a second, I think I'm going to throw up right here on the bedroom floor.
"This isn't—" he says, scrambling for his pants. "This isn't what it looks like."
A laugh bursts out of me. It sounds hysterical, broken. "Really? Because it looks like you're screwing another woman in our bed."
Marlowe reaches for a sheet, covering herself, but she doesn't look ashamed. She looks almost... bored. Like this is inconvenient but not tragic.
"You weren't supposed to be home," Dashiell says, and that's when I realize he's not apologizing. He's complaining.
"I wanted to surprise you," I whisper. My hand drops to my stomach—flat, normal, hiding a secret he'll never know now. "It's our anniversary."
Dashiell pulls on his shirt, won't meet my eyes. "Nerissa, I—look, this has been going on for a while. Marlowe and I, we've been... we're in love."
The words hit me like punches.
A while. How long is a while? Months? Years?
"I want a divorce," he says, and his voice is cold. Professional. Like he's firing an employee. "You make me feel small, Nerissa. You're too successful, too perfect, too everything. When I'm with you, I feel like I'm drowning. Like I'm not enough."
I stare at him, this man I've loved for seven years, and I don't recognize him.
"Marlowe makes me feel like a man," he continues, gaining confidence now, like he's been practicing this speech. "She needs me. You don't need anyone."
My legs are shaking. I grab the doorframe to stay standing.
"Get out," I whisper.
"This is my house too—"
"GET OUT!" I scream it so loud my throat burns.
Dashiell flinches. Marlowe gathers her clothes, smirking like she's won something.
They leave. I hear them on the stairs, hear the front door close, hear Dashiell's car start in the driveway.
Then silence.
I sink to the floor, my hand pressing against my stomach where our baby is growing. The baby he doesn't know about. The baby I can't have now. Not with him. Not alone. Not like this.
My phone rings in my purse downstairs.
I ignore it.
It rings again. And again.
Finally, I force myself to stand, to walk down the stairs, to find my phone.
Seven missed calls. All from my father.
I answer on the eighth ring.
"Nerissa, thank God." My father's voice is panicked, broken. "It's your mother. She collapsed at the grocery store. They took her to the hospital. Her heart—the doctors say she needs surgery. Emergency surgery. Tonight."
My knees buckle. I sit down hard on the kitchen floor.
"How much?" I ask, because I already know what's coming.
"Eight hundred thousand dollars." He's crying now. "And Nerissa, there's more. The company—my debts—I lost everything. We're bankrupt. I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I'm so sorry."
I drop the phone.
On the kitchen counter, the pregnancy test lies next to the expensive wine I'll never open.
My marriage is over. My mother is dying. My family is broke. And inside me, a baby is growing that I can't possibly keep.
This morning, I had everything.
Now, I have nothing.
My phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number.
"I heard about your situation. Meet me at the Greystone Hotel, room 2847, tomorrow at 10 AM. I have a solution to all your problems. —T.R."
I stare at the initials, my heart stuttering.
T.R.
Thaddeus Reign.
My husband's stepfather.
The man I've tried not to notice for seven years.
The billionaire who's watched me across every family dinner with eyes that burn too hot.
What does he want?
And why do I feel like answering this text will change everything?