The cab dropped me off at the corner because of the balloons.

I didn't understand at first. I just saw white and blue clusters bobbing against the entrance of our building, tied to the railing where I used to lock my bike in undergrad. I thought maybe a neighbor had a birthday. I paid the driver. I stepped out with my suitcase in one hand and the Tiffany box tucked deep in my coat pocket, the little ribbon catching against my knuckles every time I moved.

I had my proposal ready. I'd practiced it on the plane. Something short. Vincent hated long speeches.

Then I looked up.

The banner was strung between two lampposts. Blue letters on a white background. *Welcome Home, Baby Carpenter.*

I stopped walking. My brain tried to make it mean something else. A cousin. A joke. A wrong building.

And then I saw him.

Vincent was standing on the sidewalk in the navy coat I'd bought him for Christmas two years ago. His hair was shorter than I remembered. His arm was wrapped around a woman I had never seen in my life. She was tall. Dark hair. Wearing pale pink. She was cradling something against her chest, and the something had a tiny knit cap on it, and the cap was blue.

The ring box slid out of my fingers. I heard it hit the pavement. A small, ordinary sound.

Something in my chest went very quiet.

"Seraphina."

The voice came from my left. Warm. Careful. The voice I had known since I was fifteen years old, the voice that had once told me to eat more at Thanksgiving because I was too thin.

I turned.

Eleanor Carpenter stood beside me in a cream wool coat, gloves on, her hair pinned back exactly the way it always was. She was smiling with her mouth. Her eyes were doing something else.

"Sweetheart," she said. "Let's not make a scene."

I opened my mouth. No sound came.

"I was hoping to catch you before you got here." She stepped closer. She put her gloved hand over mine, the way she used to when I was upset about a bad grade. "I know this is a shock. I want you to hear it from me."

"Eleanor." My voice came out hoarse. "What is this."

"Vincent couldn't wait any longer." Her thumb stroked the back of my hand. Slow. Rehearsed. "You've been gone almost four years, honey. A man has a life to build. The Gonzalez family — Paige's family — they're old friends. It was a practical match. These things happen when a woman prioritizes her career."

She said *career* the way she might have said *hobby.*

I stared at her.

"He has a son," she said. As if I hadn't already understood. As if the blue cap thirty feet away needed translation. "A beautiful, healthy son. He was born ten days ago."

Ten days.

Ten days ago I had been sitting in a Manhattan bakery choosing between chocolate ganache and vanilla buttercream for the engagement dinner I was planning.

"Seraphina." Eleanor squeezed my hand. Warm. Firm. "Move on gracefully. It's the kindest thing you can do — for him, for the baby, for yourself. You're a smart girl. You'll land on your feet."

She patted my hand twice. A little rhythm. Practiced.

Then she turned and walked toward the building.

She did not look back.

I stood on the sidewalk. The wind moved through the balloons. Somewhere behind me a car horn honked. My knees were still working. My lungs were still working. I could see Vincent laughing at something the woman had said. He tilted his head down and kissed the top of the baby's cap.

My legs folded.

I don't remember hitting the pavement. I remember the sky. I remember someone screaming *ma'am, ma'am,* and then a woman kneeling over me with her phone pressed to her ear. I remember the ring box near my cheek, tiny and blue against the gray concrete.

I remember thinking that Vincent was twenty feet away and did not turn around.

---

White ceiling. Fluorescent hum. The sting of an IV in the back of my hand.

"Miss Reynolds. Can you hear me?"

The nurse had a kind, tired face and a name badge that read *Margaret Liu, RN.* She was holding my chart against her hip.

"You fainted," she said. "Dehydration and acute stress. You're stable. Your vitals are good." She paused. She glanced at the chart, and I watched her decide how to say the next thing. "Sweetheart. Your blood work came back. You're pregnant. About six weeks."

I didn't move.

I heard the words. I understood the words. I felt them settle somewhere below my ribs, cold and small and final.

My phone buzzed on the tray beside the bed.

Margaret reached for it before I could stop her, and then, seeing my face, handed it over without a word.

Unknown number. One image. Vincent in a white sweater. The woman — Paige — in white too. The baby between them in a matching knit onesie, tiny fist curled against her collarbone. They looked like a Christmas card.

The caption read: *He chose us. Maybe focus on your little science experiments instead 💋.*

I looked at the photo for a long time.

Then I set the phone face down on the blanket. I looked at Margaret. My voice, when it came, was even.

"I need information," I said. "About termination services. Whatever paperwork I need to start."

Margaret's face didn't change. She nodded once. "I'll bring you the packet."

She left. The door hissed shut behind her.

I turned my face toward the window. Outside, it had started to rain. I watched the drops slide sideways down the glass, and I did not cry.

I had a week. I had a return trip to make. I had a closet full of things in an apartment that was no longer mine, and I would go get them, and then I would disappear.

I closed my eyes.

Somewhere in the city, a banner was still hanging above a sidewalk with my name nowhere on it.

That was fine.

I was learning how to have a name of my own.

The key still worked.

I stood in the hallway with my hand on the knob, listening to the silence on the other side. Part of me had expected the locks to be changed. Part of me had hoped for it. A clean severing. A door that wouldn't open.

But Vincent had never been clean about anything.

I turned the key. The door swung inward.

The apartment didn't smell like me anymore. That was the first thing. No coffee. No lavender soap. It smelled like something floral and expensive that I didn't recognize. I stepped inside and set my empty suitcase on the floor.

The walls were wrong.

Our framed photo from Cape Cod—the one where we were both sunburned and laughing—was gone. In its place hung a canvas print of Vincent and Paige on a beach I'd never seen, her hand on her belly, both of them barefoot and glowing. The bookshelf where I'd kept my research notebooks had been reorganized. My spines were shoved together on the bottom shelf. The rest was baby books. *What to Expect.* *The Happiest Baby on the Block.*

I walked toward the bedroom. My legs felt distant. Mechanical.

The bed had new sheets. White with a thin gray stripe. I used to keep blue ones. Egyptian cotton. Vincent said they felt like sleeping in a cloud.

I opened the dresser drawer where I used to keep my jewelry. My grandmother's pearl earrings were still there, tucked in the back corner beneath a tangle of Paige's gold chains. Overlooked. Or left on purpose. I picked them up. The pearls were cool and smooth against my palm.

"Still sniffing around?"

I turned.

Paige stood in the doorway. She was wearing a silk robe, cream-colored, tied loose at the waist. And at her throat—hanging just above her collarbones on a delicate gold chain—was the sapphire pendant.

Vincent's grandmother had shown it to me three years ago. Christmas Eve. She'd taken my hand across the dinner table and pressed the small velvet box into my palm. *For your wedding day,* she'd whispered. *It's been in the family since 1952.*

Paige's fingers drifted up to touch it. Casual. Deliberate.

"He doesn't want you," she said. Her voice was light. Conversational. "He hasn't wanted you for a long time."

I closed my hand around the earrings. I didn't answer.

I moved past her into the living room. My old coffee mug—the chipped one from the Columbia bookstore—was still in the cabinet. I wrapped it in a dish towel and set it in the suitcase. My winter scarf was in the hall closet. I folded it. Paige followed me.

"You know what's funny?" she said. She leaned against the wall, arms crossed, the sapphire catching the light every time she moved. "He told me about the appointment. Your little appointment next week."

My hands stilled on the scarf.

"At least you're smart enough to know no one wants a leftover baby."

I felt something crack behind my sternum. Small. Quiet. I kept folding.

"Did you really think he'd choose you?" Paige's voice dropped lower. Intimate. Almost kind. "You were gone for four years, Seraphina. Four years. He got tired of waiting for someone who cared more about pipettes than him."

I picked up my laptop charger from the side table. I coiled it carefully. My hands were shaking.

Paige stepped closer. "You should've seen his face when I told him I was pregnant. He cried. Happy tears. He said he'd been waiting his whole life to be a dad."

I zipped the suitcase. The sound was very loud.

"He never talked about you like that," Paige said. "Not once."

I straightened. I looked at her. She was smiling.

And then we both heard it.

The scrape of a key in the lock.

Paige's face changed. It happened fast. Her smile vanished. Her hand flew to her stomach. She staggered backward—one step, two—her mouth opening in a gasp that sounded almost real.

And then she dropped.

She hit the floor hard, right at my feet, her arms flailing out as if I'd shoved her. The sapphire pendant swung loose from her neck. Her scream was sharp and high and perfectly timed.

"Vincent!" she shrieked. "Vincent, help—"

The door slammed open.

Vincent stood in the doorway, his coat half off, his face pale. His eyes went to Paige on the floor. Then to me standing over her.

He didn't hesitate.

He didn't ask.

He moved.

His hands hit my shoulders. Hard. A full-body shove with all his weight behind it. I flew backward. My hip cracked against the edge of the kitchen island. Pain exploded white and hot. I crumpled.

The floor was cold against my cheek.

I heard Vincent drop to his knees beside Paige. "Are you okay? Did she hurt you? Is the baby—"

"I'm fine," Paige gasped. "I'm fine. She just—she came at me—"

I tried to push myself up. My hands slipped. There was something wet beneath me. Dark. Spreading.

I looked down.

Blood.

A lot of blood.

I turned my head. Vincent was still crouched over Paige, his back to me, his hand on her face. I opened my mouth.

"Vincent."

My voice came out thin. Distant.

He didn't turn.

"Vincent," I said again. Louder. The pain was climbing up my spine now, hot and sharp and wrong. "Vincent, I'm bleeding."

He froze.

Slowly—so slowly—he turned his head.

His eyes dropped to the floor. To the blood pooling beneath me. To my hands pressed against my stomach.

His face went gray.

"Seraphina—"

I looked at him. I felt very calm. Very far away.

"You just killed your own child," I whispered.

And then the world went dark.

Vincent came through the door like a storm.

I heard his keys hit the entry table. His coat sliding off. His breath sharp and fast like he'd been running.

I was still standing over Paige. She was sprawled on the floor at my feet, one hand clutching her stomach, the other reaching toward the door. Her mouth was open. Her eyes were wide and wet.

"Vincent!" she screamed. "Vincent, help—"

He didn't stop to look. He didn't ask what happened. His eyes went to her on the ground and me standing above her and something in his face just—shut off.

He moved.

Fast.

His hands slammed into my shoulders. Both of them. Full force. I felt my feet leave the floor. The room blurred. My back hit the kitchen island—the corner, the sharp granite edge—and pain exploded white and hot up my spine.

I went down hard.

The tile was cold against my cheek. My ears were ringing. I tried to breathe but my lungs wouldn't fill.

I heard Vincent drop to his knees. Not near me. Near her.

"Are you okay?" His voice cracked. Desperate. "Did she hurt you? Is the baby—"

"I'm fine." Paige's voice came out in gasps. Breathless. Perfectly timed. "I'm fine. She just—she came at me—"

I pressed my palms flat against the floor. Tried to push myself up. My hands slipped.

There was something wet beneath me.

I looked down.

Red.

Dark red spreading across the white tile in a slow, terrible bloom.

My hands were shaking. I pressed them against my stomach. The fabric of my shirt was soaked. Warm. Wrong.

"Vincent."

My voice sounded far away. Like it belonged to someone else.

He didn't turn.

He was still crouched over Paige, his hand on her face, his thumb brushing her cheek. She was crying. He was whispering something I couldn't hear.

"Vincent," I said again. Louder this time. The pain was climbing now. Sharp. Twisting. My vision blurred at the edges. "Vincent, I'm bleeding."

He froze.

Slowly—so slowly—he turned his head.

His eyes found the floor first. The blood pooling beneath me. Then my hands pressed against my stomach. Then my face.

All the color drained out of him.

"Seraphina—"

I looked at him. I felt very calm. Very far away. Like I was watching this happen to someone else.

"You just killed your own child," I whispered.

His face crumpled.

And then the world went dark.

---

I woke to white ceiling tiles and the steady beep of machines.

My body felt hollow. Scooped out. Empty in a way that had nothing to do with hunger.

A nurse moved into my line of sight. Not Margaret this time. Someone younger. She smiled down at me with practiced sympathy.

"You're awake," she said softly. "You're at Harborview Medical Center. You're stable."

I tried to speak. My throat was dry. She held a cup of water to my lips. I drank.

"The baby," I said.

Her smile faded. She set the cup down. She didn't need to say it.

I closed my eyes.

"There's someone outside," the nurse said quietly. "He's been here since they brought you in. He's very upset. Do you want—"

"No."

My voice was flat. Final.

She nodded. She left.

I turned my face toward the window. The sky outside was gray. It might have been morning. It might have been afternoon. I didn't care.

I heard voices in the hallway. Vincent's voice. Loud. Cracking.

"I need to see her—"

"Sir, she doesn't want visitors right now."

"You don't understand—" His voice broke. "I didn't know. I didn't know she was—"

Footsteps. Closer. I heard him just outside the door.

"She had an appointment," a woman's voice said. Clinical. Neutral. Margaret. "For next week. A termination. But the blunt force trauma caused the miscarriage before she could—"

Silence.

Then a sound I'd never heard Vincent make before. A gasping, choking sob.

"She was going to—" His voice splintered. "She was pregnant and I—"

A thud. Like something heavy hitting the wall.

"Sir, you need to calm down—"

"I killed my own—" He couldn't finish. The words dissolved into ragged, animal sounds. Hyperventilating. Clawing.

I stared at the ceiling.

I felt nothing.

The machines beeped. The voices faded. Somewhere down the hall a baby cried.

I closed my eyes and waited for morning.