Chapter 2

The living room tightens into a silence so dense I can hear my own breath.

The tension stretches tight as a wire. Cade finally takes a step forward.

"She knows Hugo has a bad stomach. She only asked me to bring him some medicine. She knows where the line is. What about you?"

His chest heaves. Then he finally spits out the words that have been sitting on his tongue.

"Besides asking for things, breaking things, and threatening divorce—what have you ever done for him? You can't even give him a—"

"A what?" I scream, cutting him off.

Years of resentment and pain explode out of me. "You want to talk about children?!"

"Cade, You can ask him! Ask Hugo why I can't get pregnant!"

I turn to Hugo. Tears and hatred crash down my face.

"Tell him! Tell him about the flood five years ago! Tell him how you could have taken me first, but you stayed behind to save Luna's damn cat! Tell him how you left me alone in waist-deep freezing water for five hours!"

Cade freezes.

I laugh, my whole body shaking. I point at Hugo. I point at all of them.

"Those bitter fertility medicines—I threw up every time I drank them. Every time I make a scene, do you think it's because I want to?"

Cade is stunned by my outburst. He opens his mouth but can't find the words.

Hugo closes his eyes. When he opens them again, there's nothing but raw, breaking pain underneath.

His voice is hoarse as he tries to step closer. "Sia, that incident was an accident. I later—"

"Later you made up for it, right?" I step back, avoiding him. "Fine. Make up for it. Send Luna away right now. I don't want to see her in Harbor City. Or—divorce."

Divorce.

I don't know what else to say anymore.

Silence swallows the room.

Cade snorts and turns to Hugo. "Hugo, since she's raised divorce, why not—"

"Get out!" Hugo roars.

I don't know if he's shouting at them or at me.

But everyone is used to this scene by now. They exchange glances and file out.

The huge space empties.

Just Hugo and me.

I stand in the middle of the wreckage.

I wait.

Like I have a hundred times before. I wait for him to walk over, pull me into his arms, and say in that helpless, indulgent voice: "Sia, stop it."

Or even just a lie.

An explanation for why he secretly went to the airport to pick up Luna.

An explanation for why, when I texted him that I felt like my heart was dying, he only sent an assistant with a bottle of painkillers.

I would take anything.

Even a lie.

Seconds pass.

At last he moves—but not toward me.

He stoops and, silently and methodically as after every argument, begins to pick up the broken porcelain. As if sweeping up the pieces is the only salvageable thing left in our relationship.

I watch his expressionless face.

The place where my artificial heart sits in my chest—it tightens.

Slowly I walk to him and crouch at his feet, forcing him to meet my eyes.

"Look at me. Answer me one question."

He can't look away.

"All these years—when you held me, when you kissed me, when we were intimate…" I lean closer. "Was the person you're thinking about me?"

His Adam's apple bobs. But no words come out.

A silent admission.

I nod. I stand up.

The world tilts but I hold on.

"…I won't let her stay in Harbor City!"

The words come out sharp. The last bit of stubbornness I have left.

He finally looks up at me. His voice is thin with exhaustion.

"Don't do this, Sia. This is her hometown. What right do I have to make her leave?"

Of course he has the right.

He just won't tell me that he paid for every cent of Luna's art studies in Paris. That the venue for her exhibition, the promotion, even her clothes—every single expense went through his accounts.

I saw it a month ago in a "casual" finance brief someone left on my desk. The numbers were crystal clear.

When she wasn't here, I could be his [line in the sand]. His [whole world].

With her back, the boundary shifted and his world found a new center.

Between us, he couldn't even be bothered to maintain the illusion of being torn.

The fire that has been burning in my chest for so long—it suddenly goes out.

I don't say *divorce* again.

I just turn around. One step at a time, I walk upstairs.

My phone buzzes.

I think it's a text from him—An apology.

But it's my doctor, Dr. Lee.

"Mrs. Vance, your artificial heart is long overdue for replacement. You cannot wait any longer. We advise that you forego the pregnancy."

I laugh.

My hand drifts to my lower stomach.

All these years, Hugo hired the best medical team to care for me. They made it possible for me to try for a baby even with an artificial heart.

What he doesn't know is that three months ago I refused to replace the failing artificial heart.

I had a feeling I couldn't explain—a fierce, animal certainty.

Now I'm pregnant.

And my heart is failing.