Chapter 1

My husband asked me to abort our baby so his mistress could keep hers.

The package showed up at my door that morning.

I thought it was from Ethan — something thoughtful, something for our baby.

It was thoughtful, all right.

Just not for me.

Inside was a VIP contract for the most exclusive postpartum care center in the city. Top-tier. Six-figure deposit. The kind of place where you booked a year out and prayed.

I stared at it for a second. Then I called him.

"Ethan, why the rush?" I said, smiling into the receiver. "The baby's only three months along. You didn't have to book this early."

A pause on the other end.

Then his voice came through, warm and soft.

"Baby, cut me some slack — it's my first time doing the dad thing. I just wanted to get ahead of it. Put it aside. I'll handle it when I get home."

Something warm bloomed in my chest.

"God, you're already nailing this dad thing."

Everyone praised Ethan Lockwood as the perfect husband.

He doted on me. Anticipated my needs. Took care of every detail of the pregnancy.

I ended the call and stood there smiling for a second, like an idiot.

Then I flipped to the second page.

Estimated due date: next month. The 15th.

My baby was only three months along.

I knew the date by heart, because Ethan had cried when I'd shown him the first ultrasound — the kind of broken crying I'd never seen from him before.

Next month.

Next month?

I read the line again. And again.

And that was the moment — standing in my own foyer, in the house my husband had picked out for us, holding a contract with my name on it — that I understood something.

The first-time father in his voice hadn't been for me.

The gentleness. The of course I don't know what I'm doing, let me take care of it — none of it had been for me.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

He just wasn't doing it for me.

Maybe it was a printing error.

That's what I told myself.

But my hand wasn't listening.

I pulled up the maternity center's website. Tapped the contact number. Something cold and slow began to spread behind my ribs.

"Seraphine Maternity Suites, how may I help you?"

"Hi. I'd like to check on an order. Number 8867. Patient name Nina Lockwood."

"One moment, please."

The hold music clicked on. Then off.

"Mrs. Lockwood?" The receptionist came back, her voice warm as melted butter.

"Yes, ma'am, your reservation is fully confirmed. Estimated due date is the fifteenth of next month. You've booked the Platinum Suite — that's our top-tier accommodation. Mr. Lockwood paid in full. The physical contract was couriered to your address. You should have it in hand any day now."

My hand trembled.

"Are you — are you absolutely certain it's Nina Lockwood?" I pressed.

"Confirmed, Ms. Moore," she interrupted.

"Mr. Lockwood left a special note — you're expecting twins and need extra care. Don't worry. Our facility's fully equipped. Medical team's on standby twenty-four seven. You and your babies will be safe."

The phone almost slipped out of my hand.

Twins?

I hung up. Sat down on the couch. My hands and feet had gone ice cold.

The name was right.

The ID number was right.

But I was carrying one baby. Only three months pregnant.

And Seraphine?

Seraphine was the kind of place that even a week's notice was enough. There was no reason on earth to book this far ahead.

Unless you needed the name on the paperwork to match a face that wasn't going to be there.

I sat very still.

My hand drifted, almost without permission, to the small flat curve of my stomach.

Whose baby was she carrying — and why was it due next month?