Nerissa POV
I stare at the text message until the words blur.
"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."
Thaddeus Reign. My soon-to-be ex-husband's stepfather. How does he already know? Dashiell only walked out two hours ago. My father only called about my mother an hour ago.
Does this man have spies everywhere?
My phone buzzes again. My father. I silence it. I can't talk to him right now. Can't hear him beg for money I don't have. Can't promise my mother will be okay when I have no idea how to save her.
I look down at the pregnancy test still clutched in my shaking hand.
Two pink lines. Two beautiful, impossible pink lines.
A baby growing inside me while my whole world burns down.
I press my hand to my stomach. "I'm sorry," I whisper. "I'm so, so sorry."
Because I already know what I have to do.
I can't have this baby. Not alone. Not broke. Not when my mother is dying and my father has destroyed everything and my husband just told me I make him feel small.
A sob tears out of my throat.
How did this happen? This morning, I woke up next to Dashiell. He kissed my forehead before I left for work. He said "Love you, babe" like he always does. Like he meant it.
Was Marlowe already in our house? Waiting for me to leave? How many times has he brought her into our bed?
My stomach churns. I run to the bathroom and throw up everything I ate today. When I'm done, I sit on the cold tile floor and cry until there's nothing left.
Then I stand up. Wash my face. Look at myself in the mirror.
My eyes are red and swollen. My hair is a mess. I look destroyed.
Good. I feel destroyed.
I pick up my phone and search for women's health clinics. There's one across town that offers same-day appointments. My finger hovers over the "call now" button.
Can I really do this?
Three years. Three years of hoping, praying, trying. Three years of seeing single pink lines and crying in bathroom stalls at work. Three years of Dashiell holding me and saying "Next month, babe. We'll get pregnant next month."
And now that it's finally happened, I have to undo it.
I make the call before I can change my mind.
"Women's Health Center, how can I help you?"
"I need an appointment," I hear myself say. My voice sounds robotic. Dead. "Today. As soon as possible."
"We have an opening at 4 PM. Can you be here by then?"
I look at the clock. It's 2:30 PM.
"Yes."
"Name?"
"Nerissa Caldwell." I use my maiden name without thinking. I'm not a Voss anymore. Maybe I never really was.
I hang up and sit on the edge of the bathtub, the pregnancy test still in my hand.
My phone rings again. Not my father this time.
Dashiell.
Rage floods through me, hot and sharp. I answer.
"What do you want?"
"Nerissa, we need to talk." He sounds calm. Reasonable. Like he didn't just blow up our entire life. "I know you're upset—"
"Upset?" I laugh, and it sounds crazy even to me. "You think I'm upset? You cheated on me. On our anniversary. In our bed."
"You're always so dramatic," he sighs. "This is exactly what I'm talking about. You make everything about you."
I can't breathe. "You're blaming me for being hurt that you cheated?"
"I'm saying you drove me to it!" His voice rises now, showing his real feelings. "Do you know what it's like being married to you? Perfect Nerissa with her PhD and her research grants and her patents. Everyone loves you. Everyone thinks you're so brilliant. And what am I? Just the husband who works in marketing. The guy who isn't as smart or successful or important."
"I never said any of that—"
"You didn't have to! It's in everything you do. The way you explain things to me like I'm stupid. The way you make more money than me. The way everyone at parties wants to talk to you, not me."
Tears stream down my face. "So you punished me by sleeping with your ex-girlfriend?"
"Marlowe doesn't make me feel like a failure," he says quietly. "She needs me. She looks at me like I'm important. Like I matter."
"I looked at you like you mattered," I whisper. "I loved you."
"Past tense. Interesting." He sounds almost satisfied. "Look, I'm filing for divorce. My lawyer will contact you. I think we can make this clean and simple—"
"Clean?" I'm shouting now. "You want clean? After seven years?"
"Don't make this harder than it needs to be, Nerissa. We both know this marriage was over a long time ago."
He hangs up.
I throw my phone across the bathroom. It hits the wall and cracks.
The pregnancy test is still in my other hand.
I look at it one more time. Two pink lines that mean everything and nothing.
"I'm sorry," I tell the baby that will never be. "Your father is a coward. And I can't do this alone."
At 3:45 PM, I'm sitting in the parking lot of the Women's Health Center, gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles are white.
I can still leave. I can still change my mind.
But then what? Raise a baby alone while my mother dies because I can't afford her surgery? Watch my father lose everything because I chose a child over my family?
I'm crying again as I walk inside.
The clinic is quiet. Clean. The receptionist smiles kindly and hands me paperwork.
I fill it out with shaking hands.
At 4:15 PM, a nurse calls my name.
At 5:30 PM, it's over.
I'm lying on a recovery bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling emptier than I've ever felt in my life.
A baby was growing inside me two hours ago. Now there's nothing.
Just emptiness.
The nurse checks on me. "You did great, honey. Rest for a bit, then you can go home."
Home. Where is that now? The house I shared with Dashiell? The man who destroyed everything?
My cracked phone buzzes in my purse.
I pull it out with trembling hands.
Another text from T.R.
"Tomorrow. 10 AM. Don't be late. What I'm offering will change your life. But it comes with conditions. Are you brave enough to accept them?"
I stare at the message, my heart pounding.
Thaddeus Reign. The silver-haired billionaire who makes my pulse race every time he walks into a room. The man I've tried not to notice for seven years because he's my husband's stepfather.
Ex-husband now, I guess.
What could he possibly want from me?
And why does part of me desperately want to find out?
I type one word: "Yes."
His response is immediate.
"Good girl. Wear something nice. We're making a deal that will save you. Or destroy you. Maybe both."