Chapter 5

"Ethan, how much is left of our $40,000 joint savings?"

He didn't answer.

I opened my banking app right in front of everyone. The loading circle spun for three agonizing seconds. When the page finally loaded, I stared at the balance.

$32.17.

Forty thousand dollars in savings, and only thirty-two dollars remained.

I pulled up the transaction history. It was filled with transfers from the past three months.

Postpartum retreat deposit: $5,000. Baby gear: $3,800.

And a massive transfer of $15,000 with the memo: *Rent.*

"Fifteen thousand dollars for rent? Did you rent a penthouse?"

Ethan finally broke. He sat on the floor, holding his head in his hands.

"Hope liked a luxury apartment. She wanted a one-year lease. She said we couldn't stay in a hotel after the baby was born. The baby needs a proper home."

"So you spent the thirty thousand dollars my parents got from refinancing their workshop? The money they gave us for a house down payment?"

"Chloe, I will pay it back."

"With what?"

My voice wasn't loud. But the room fell dead silent.

Brenda was the first to recover. She snorted.

"That's between you two. It has nothing to do with my daughter. Ethan is spending his own money to support his own child. That's only natural."

"Out of that forty thousand, thirty thousand belongs to my parents!"

"So what? Once money enters a joint account, it's marital property. Don't you know the law?"

I didn't reply.

Hope unlocked her phone and showed me a gallery of photos.

It was a beautifully decorated nursery.

"Ethan painted it himself. He spent three days picking the perfect warm yellow, saying our baby's room needs to feel like sunshine."

She swiped to the next photo. A close-up of a handmade crib mobile with a tiny felt elephant.

"He sewed this elephant himself. He pricked his fingers so many times."

I stood up. My legs felt weak, and I had to lean on the edge of the coffee table for support.

"I’m going to the hospital."

Ethan looked up sharply.

"What's wrong? Are you not feeling well?"

"None of your business."

"Chloe—"

"I said, stay away from me!"

I grabbed my bag and walked out.

Downstairs, I called an Uber and put in the address of the nearest women's hospital.

I went straight to the ER. When the nurse asked for my symptoms, I told her I was experiencing frequent contractions. I was seven months pregnant and needed a fetal monitor.

The nurse handed me a form to fill out. Name. Age. Weeks of pregnancy. Emergency contact.

Out of sheer habit, I wrote down Ethan's name and number.

The nurse took the form to enter it into the system. As she typed, her brow furrowed.

"Mrs. Sterling? Ethan Sterling's wife?"

"Yes."

She typed a few more times, then looked at me with a very strange expression.

"But... we already have an active file for a Mrs. Sterling under Ethan Sterling. She registered last week. She's six months pregnant."

She turned the monitor slightly toward me.

At the top of the digital file was a photo.

It was Hope's face.

Next to her name, it read: *Emergency Contact / Spouse: Ethan Sterling.*

Every prenatal visit on the record had his signature, from the initial registration to the most recent appointment.

The nurse looked back and forth between my face and the screen.

She had probably seen enough drama in the ER to guess what was happening. She asked gently, "So... who are you to him?"