I had barely reached the hospital entrance when someone called my name.

—Miss Brooks!

The nurse hurried toward me, holding a white envelope.

—Your prescription.

I thanked her and slipped it into my bag.

Behind me, the elevator doors closed.

Ethan never came after me.

I shouldn’t have been surprised.

Still, knowing why hurt.

Ivy had whispered that she was in pain, and once again, Ethan had chosen her.

So I left.

That afternoon, I checked into a small apartment my lawyer had arranged.

No photographs.

No memories.

No Ethan.

I turned off my phone and slept for almost twelve hours.

When I woke, there were twenty-three missed calls.

Not from Ethan.

From my lawyer.

I called immediately.

—What happened?

—Ethan refused to sign.

I closed my eyes.

—Why?

—He says you’re acting emotionally and wants a thirty-day cooling-off period.

I laughed.

Of course.

Even my decision to leave couldn’t possibly be real unless Ethan approved it.

—File without his cooperation.

—Lina, that will make things uglier.

—Then let them become ugly.

I hung up.

Three days passed.

I followed the doctor’s instructions carefully.

Rest.

Medication.

No work.

No arguments.

For the first time in years, my life became quiet.

Then, on the fourth morning, someone pounded on my door.

Ethan.

I didn’t open it.

—Lina, I know you’re inside.

Silence.

—Open the door.

I continued drinking my tea.

His voice became frustrated.

—How long are you going to keep this up?

That almost made me smile.

He still thought I was punishing him.

I walked to the door but kept the chain locked.

When I opened it slightly, Ethan stared at me.

He looked exhausted.

—Come home.

—No.

His eyebrows tightened.

—I already told Ivy not to contact you anymore.

—How generous.

—Nothing happened between us on that trip.

I stared at him.

—She sent me a photograph of you in bed.

His face changed.

—What photograph?

For the first time, I hesitated.

I opened my phone and found the image.

Ethan looked at it.

His expression slowly hardened.

—This isn’t what you think.

—It never is.

—Lina, listen to me.

—I’m tired of listening.

I started closing the door.

His hand stopped it.

Then his eyes fell on the medicine bottle sitting on the table behind me.

He read the label.

His entire body froze.

—Why are you taking progesterone?

I said nothing.

Ethan knew enough to understand.

His gaze dropped to my stomach.

Then returned to my face.

—You’re pregnant.

Not a question.

I slowly removed his hand from the door.

—Goodbye, Ethan.

His face went pale.

—How far along?

I closed the door.

This time, he didn’t knock again.

For ten minutes, there was silence.

Then my phone exploded with messages.

Seven weeks?

Is it mine?

I stared at that sentence.

Then blocked him.

Two hours later, my lawyer called again.

His voice sounded strange.

—Lina, Ethan signed.

I sat upright.

—He did?

—Yes.

A pause.

—But he added something before signing.

My heart sank.

—What?

—He waived every claim to the house, investments and marital property.

I frowned.

That didn’t sound like Ethan.

—Why?

—He wrote one sentence beneath his signature.

My lawyer read it aloud.

“Nothing matters except ensuring Lina receives whatever medical care she needs.”

I felt nothing.

Or perhaps I refused to.

A signature couldn’t erase a year.

That evening, however, Ivy called from an unknown number.

—So you told him.

I recognized the bitterness immediately.

—Don’t call me again.

—Do you think pregnancy will bring him back?

I almost laughed.

—I divorced him.

Silence.

Apparently she hadn’t known.

Then she said:

—You always ruin everything.

I frowned.

—What exactly did I ruin?

She hung up.

The next morning, Ethan appeared at the hospital.

Not looking for me.

Looking for records.

My former colleague called me immediately.

—Lina, your husband is downstairs demanding to know why Ivy was in Gynecology.

—Ex-husband.

—Whatever he is, he’s furious.

My stomach tightened.

—Why?

My colleague hesitated.

—Because Ivy told him she was there for dizziness.

—And?

—She wasn’t.

I went silent.

—Then why was she there?

—Prenatal consultation.

The world seemed to stop.

Ivy was pregnant.

Suddenly her hand over her abdomen made sense.

Her performance.

Her confidence.

Her need to make sure I understood that Ethan would always choose her.

I closed my eyes.

There it was.

The final answer.

But my colleague continued.

—Lina, there’s something strange.

—What?

—Ivy listed Ethan as the emergency contact.

I laughed bitterly.

—That isn’t strange.

—The gestational age is.

I stopped.

—How far?

—Eleven weeks.

Eleven.

The island trip had been nine weeks earlier.

I slowly sat down.

My colleague lowered her voice.

—And Ethan apparently just discovered the dates don’t match.

I didn’t know why that mattered anymore.

Not my husband.

Not my problem.

I ended the call.

But twenty minutes later, someone knocked.

Not Ethan.

I opened the door and found an older woman in an expensive gray suit.

Ethan’s mother.

Margaret Pierce.

She had ignored me for most of my marriage.

Now she held a folder.

—May I come in?

—No.

Her expression didn’t change.

—Then I’ll say this here.

She handed me the folder.

Inside were bank transfers.

Hotel records.

Messages.

All involving Ivy.

But not Ethan.

Another name appeared repeatedly.

Marcus Pierce.

Ethan’s older brother.

I looked up.

Margaret’s face was grim.

—Ivy’s child may belong to Marcus.

I handed the folder back.

—Then congratulations on your family drama.

I started closing the door.

Margaret stopped me with one sentence.

—That’s not why I’m here.

I waited.

—Ethan found the original photograph Ivy sent you.

My hand tightened.

—And?

—It was manipulated.

I said nothing.

—He also discovered that several messages from his phone to Ivy were sent while he was flying.

That made me pause.

Margaret continued:

—Someone wanted you to believe they were having an affair.

—It worked because Ethan allowed boundaries that should never have existed.

Her expression softened slightly.

—On that, I agree.

That answer surprised me.

Then she gave me another envelope.

—But there is something more important.

Inside was a copy of my hospital registration from the day I’d discovered my pregnancy.

Someone had accessed it.

Before Ethan knew.

Before I’d told anyone outside the medical team.

The account belonged to an administrative employee.

But the authorization code beneath it came from Pierce Holdings.

I stared at Margaret.

—Why would your company access my medical information?

—I don’t know.

My phone rang.

The hospital.

I answered.

My doctor spoke quickly.

—Lina, I need you to come in today. Your latest tests are concerning, and I don’t want you alone.

My heart began pounding.

—Is something wrong with the baby?

—We need to examine you before I can answer that.

I grabbed my coat.

Margaret drove me.

When we reached the hospital, Ethan was already there.

He stood outside the examination room.

I stopped.

—Who told you?

His eyes went immediately to me.

—Your emergency contact was never changed.

Of course.

For eight years, Ethan had been the person hospitals called if something happened to me.

He approached.

I stepped back.

—Don’t.

He stopped immediately.

For once, he listened.

The doctor called me inside.

The examination felt endless.

Finally, she turned the monitor toward me.

—The pregnancy is still continuing.

My breath escaped.

But her expression remained serious.

—However, there’s something in your previous medical history we need to discuss.

—What history?

She opened an older record.

Three years earlier.

A hospitalization I barely remembered after a car accident.

Then she frowned.

—According to this, you underwent a reproductive procedure during that admission.

I stared at her.

—No, I didn’t.

Ethan stepped forward.

—What procedure?

The doctor looked between us.

—An embryo preservation procedure.

My skin turned cold.

—That’s impossible.

She rotated the screen.

There was my name.

My patient number.

And a consent form.

Except the signature wasn’t mine.

Ethan leaned closer.

Then suddenly went rigid.

—I know that handwriting.

I looked at him.

—Whose?

Before he could answer, the examination-room door opened.

Ivy stood there.

Her face was completely pale.

She looked at the old medical record on the screen.

Then at Ethan.

—You weren’t supposed to find that.

Ethan’s voice turned cold.

—Who signed this?

Ivy backed away.

And then she whispered:

—Ask your mother.

Everyone turned toward Margaret.

But Margaret looked genuinely horrified.

Ivy gave a trembling laugh.

—Not Margaret.

Her eyes moved to Ethan.

—Your biological mother.