Chapter 1: The Pink Lines

I stared down at the pregnancy test, my hands shaking so hard I nearly dropped the plastic stick. The two pink lines glared up at me, like a pair of neon warning signs I couldn’t ignore. My vision blurred, the bathroom tiles spinning under my feet.

I’d already taken at least ten tests—every single one the same. There was no mistake. Two pink lines, screaming at me. But how? I hadn’t so much as flirted with a guy—hell, I barely left the townhouse except for Pilates and charity luncheons. The thought slammed through my head like a migraine, relentless and sharp.

I tried to rewind everything, flipping through the last few months in my mind like a frantic highlight reel. Nothing made sense. The only possible explanation was my birthday—the night I drank too much and the world turned to static. I ransacked my mind for answers, but the night was a blur—just flickers of laughter, the sting of champagne, and a loneliness that wouldn’t quit.

Nathan had promised me a birthday gift that morning, his voice uncharacteristically soft over breakfast. I’d clung to that hope all day, but he never showed. I sat in our marble foyer, watching the grandfather clock tick past midnight, sipping Pinot Noir and waiting for a husband who never came.

He’d been forced into this marriage, and after the wedding he treated me like a stranger. Not even a brush of fingers at dinner, never a single spark. I was just another fixture in his life—like the antique vases or the family crest above the fireplace.

On my birthday, I’d wished—stupidly—that things might thaw between us. That maybe, just maybe, he’d see me. But the candles burned down, the food went cold, and I was left alone at a table set for two. Every ring to his phone shot straight to voicemail.

My best friend, Madison, tried to cheer me up in her usual way—suggesting I let her hire a hot guy to keep me company. She always thought a little fun could fix anything. I drowned my loneliness in champagne, the bubbles stinging my nose as I drank too much and laughed too loudly.

The next morning, I woke up with mascara streaked across my silk pillowcase and my Jimmy Choos on the wrong feet. My back ached, my waist sore. I chalked it up to clumsy drunkenness—maybe I’d slipped on the stairs. But now, staring at those pink lines, a wave of nausea hit me. Had I slept with someone? The realization was ice water down my spine.

Suddenly, the deep purr of Nathan’s Bentley echoed from the garage downstairs. He was home. My stomach twisted with panic—how was I supposed to explain this? The betrayal, the secret, the impossible truth growing inside me.