Chapter 4

Ethan's first reaction wasn't to ask me to stay.

It was anger.

He thought I was pulling the same move I'd always pulled — threatening to leave as a way to get his attention, the same small-scale back-and-forth we'd fallen into so many times before.

"Are you serious right now? You think breaking up is some kind of leverage?" He was practically grinding his teeth, his eyes sharp and cold. "What is this, Mia?"

I reached into my bag, pulled out my key to the apartment, and set it down on the nightstand.

"It's not leverage. It's just what's happening."

I didn't look at him again. I wheeled the suitcase out.

Joanna was standing in the living room. She watched me pull the case toward the door. Something crossed her face — gone almost as quickly as it appeared — and then she was back to performing concern.

"Mia, please don't do anything rash. This is all my fault. I'll leave right now. Please don't fight with Ethan because of me..."

Ethan grabbed her wrist before she could move, pulling her back toward the couch.

"Sit down. She wants to leave, let her leave. Let's see how far she gets."

He raised his voice at my back: "Mia, if you walk out that door, don't even think about coming back."

I kept walking. I didn't turn around.

The door shut behind me with a heavy sound — and with it, seven years of my own foolishness.

That night, I stayed at Lily's place.

Lily looked at my face — totally still, no tears, nothing — and started crying herself.

"Mia, you can cry. Seriously. You don't have to hold it all in."

I shook my head and leaned back against the couch, staring at the ceiling.

"I'm not sad, Lily. I'm just tired. It's like I've been carrying something incredibly heavy for seven years and I finally put it down. Honestly? I feel lighter."

The next morning, I went to St. Mary's Medical Center to pick up my post-op report from three months ago.

My regular doctor was out, so I was sent to a different exam room.

The nurse searched my file on her computer. She took a while, and her expression started to pinch.

"Ms. Smith, it looks like your folder was misfiled. Give me a moment — let me check the VIP prenatal suite next door."

A few minutes later she came back with a manila envelope and handed it to me.

"Found it. So sorry about that. Oh — there's also a consent form from three months ago that got mixed in with yours by mistake. It has a Mr. Cole's signature on it. You can pass it along to him."

I stopped.

"Which Mr. Cole?"

She pointed to the form. "Ethan Cole. He came in three months ago with a Ms. Joanna Quinn to complete her VIP prenatal registration. This form was left behind. The front desk was slammed that day and it accidentally got filed with your records."

The world went silent.

I looked down at the thin sheet of paper in my hands.

VIP Prenatal Registration and Informed Consent

Registration Date: Three months ago. Thursday. 10:30 a.m.

That was the exact same time I was alone in the hallway outside the OR, shaking, calling him ten times, begging him to come.

He hadn't answered.

He'd texted me that he was in a meeting. That I needed to stop bothering him.

But he wasn't in a meeting.

He was in another building of the same hospital, standing next to another woman, reserving her a premium delivery suite for their baby.

I looked down to the bottom of the page.

Family member signature: Ethan Cole.

And next to the signature, in small printed text:

Relationship to patient: Fiancé.

"Fiancé..." The word came out of me like I was reading something in another language. A cold so deep it felt physical moved through me from the floor up.

The nurse was still talking beside me, her voice warm and cheerful: "Mr. Cole was so attentive that day — running around taking care of everything, making sure Ms. Quinn didn't have to lift a finger. Our whole unit was talking about it."

I don't remember walking out of the hospital.

The sun outside was brutal. It should have been warm. I couldn't feel it.

This was the truth I'd been standing next to the whole time.

He was never anti-marriage. He just didn't want to marry me.

He was never against having kids. He just didn't want mine.

While I was in the most pain I'd ever been in — alone, losing our baby — he was in the same building, practically glowing, checking in his pregnant girlfriend and signing his name as her fiancé.

Seven years.

I spent seven years warming up a stone, only to find out someone else had already carved it into exactly what they wanted.