"Mr. Royce covered the full week, ma'am."

The morning clerk smiled at me like I'd won something.

"A week?" I gripped my suitcase handle. "He said one night."

"He called down at six. Said you might need time." She leaned in, voice dropping. "You know who he is, right? Royce Group. My cousin works in their finance office. They just put money into some logistics firm. Callahan something."

My fingers went cold.

"Callahan Freight?"

"That's it. Biggest round they ever raised. Without Royce, that whole company folds." She laughed. "Lucky them, huh?"

Lucky them.

Preston had talked about that investment for months. *If Royce pulls out, we're dead, Audrey. Dead.*

And last night, Kellan Royce had paid for the wife Preston threw into the rain.

I tried to call my sister from the lobby. The screen flashed. *Service suspended. Please contact your account holder.*

Account holder. Preston.

My prenatal vitamins were at home. So was my progesterone. So was my passport. I had no choice.

---

The front door wasn't even locked.

Mallory stood in my kitchen in my silk robe. The cream one, the one my mother gave me before she died. She was sipping from my mug. The one with the chipped handle that said *World's Okayest Wife.*

Preston bought it for me as a joke on our first anniversary.

"Oh." Mallory lowered it slowly. "You're back."

"Take off my robe."

"Audrey." Preston came down the stairs, buttoning his shirt. He looked rested. Calm. Like last night was a bad movie we'd both walked out of. "Good. You're home. We need to talk."

"Your girlfriend is wearing my mother's robe."

"She spilled coffee on her clothes. Don't be petty." He reached the bottom step and folded his arms. "Mallory cried all night. Did you know that? All night. Because of how you spoke to her."

I stared at him.

"Because of how *I* spoke to *her*."

"You screamed. You threw soup. You told her to leave in a storm." He shook his head like a disappointed teacher. "You're eight weeks pregnant. Dr. Shaw said stress could hurt the baby. Do you want to lose it? Because that's where this is going."

Mallory set my mug down. Her eyes were wet again. She was good at that.

"I just want everyone to be okay," she whispered.

"Apologize to her," Preston said.

The room tilted.

I thought of the needles. The two failed transfers. The heartbeat on the screen last week, tiny and fast like a hummingbird.

I thought of the pills upstairs I needed to keep that heartbeat going.

"Fine." My throat burned. "I'm sorry, Mallory."

Preston's shoulders dropped. He smiled.

"See? Was that so hard?"

"I need to get my vitamins."

"Mallory, help her up. She's pale."

"I don't need—"

But Mallory was already at my elbow, her fingers tight around my arm. We took the stairs together. On the fourth step, she leaned close. Her breath smelled like my coffee.

"He's tired of you, you know," she said softly. "A wife he can't touch. A wife who cries when the toast burns. He told me last month he felt like he was living with a patient."

I stopped.

"Last month?"

She smiled. Just a little.

Then the pain hit.

It ripped low through my belly, hot and twisting. My knees folded. I grabbed the railing and missed.

"Preston!" Mallory shrieked, suddenly loud and frightened. "Preston, she's falling!"

---

The private clinic on Delmore Avenue smelled like lavender and bleach. Dr. Helena Shaw moved the wand slowly over my stomach while I held my breath and counted ceiling tiles.

"There," she said.

The heartbeat filled the room. Fast. Stubborn.

I sobbed so hard the bed shook.

"Baby's okay for now," Dr. Shaw said. "But you need rest. Real rest."

Preston squeezed my shoulder. "Thank God. I'll get the car."

When the door shut behind him, Dr. Shaw didn't move. She pulled her chair closer and set down a folder.

"Mrs. Callahan. I need to tell you something, and I need you to stay calm."

My hand went to my stomach. "You said the baby was okay."

"The baby is fine. This is about the transfer." She opened the folder. Her fingers weren't steady. "During our annual audit, we checked every frozen sample. We found a labeling error. On the day of your fertilization, the sample used was not your husband's."

The words didn't land. They floated.

"Not his."

"No."

"So this baby belongs to—" I swallowed. "Some stranger? Some random donor?"

"Not a donor." She took a breath. "A private storage client. Four years ago he had surgery that might have affected his fertility. He banked samples here first. His genetic profile was on file. We've run a preliminary match against your prenatal screening." She looked straight at me. "It's consistent. Your husband is not the biological father."

"Who?"

She hesitated.

"Who, Dr. Shaw?"

"Kellan Royce."

I slid sideways. My hip hit the edge of the chair and I caught the armrest just before I hit the floor.

Cedar and rain. A black card on a marble counter. A cuff snapping away from my fingers.

*No need. Good night.*

"Mrs. Callahan?"

I started laughing. I couldn't stop. Tears ran down my face, and I was laughing.

"Are you all right?"

"No," I said. "Not even a little."

"The clinic is legally required to inform both parties. Our lawyers—"

"Don't." I grabbed her wrist. "Please. Don't call anyone. Not him. Not my husband. Not yet."

"I'm not sure I can promise—"

"I'm high-risk. You just said it. I need rest. My marriage is—" My voice broke. "I'm handling something. Give me time. Please."

She studied me for a long moment.

"Thirty days," she said. "Then we talk again."

---

Dinner was roast chicken. Mallory made it. She sat at the far end of the table, legs crossed.

"You'll stop this job nonsense," Preston said, cutting his meat. "No more résumés. No more calls to your old firm. You stay home. You rest. You give me my heir."

*My heir.*

Under the table, Mallory's bare foot slid up his calf. Slowly. He didn't even blink.

A week ago, I would have cried.

I didn't.

I reached across the table and took Preston's hand. His fork froze.

"You were right," I said gently. "I overreacted. I was scared. I forgive you."

His eyes searched mine. Then something in his face loosened. Victory. Plain as daylight.

"I knew you'd come around."

Mallory's foot went still.

"Can Mallory stay?" I asked. "I'll need help. With the baby."

Preston actually laughed. "Of course she can."

That night, my phone lit up on the nightstand. *Your cards have been reactivated.* Then: *Service restored.*

He thought he'd bought me back.

I lay in the dark and pressed my palm over my stomach.

"Hi, Iris," I whispered. I had picked the name months ago. It finally felt like hers.

He would watch me carry you. He would brag about you at every dinner. He would hang your picture in his office.

And then he would lose all of it. The company. The wife. The child he thought was his.

Down the hall, a door clicked shut.

My phone buzzed again. A number I didn't know.

*This is Kellan Royce. The Lennox called. They said you were taken to Delmore Clinic this morning. Is that true?*

I never answered Kellan's text.

I deleted it and made Preston eggs instead.

"Over easy," I said, sliding the plate across the counter. "The way you like."

He looked at the eggs. Then at me. "What's this?"

"Breakfast. You have the Halvorsen call at nine."

He smiled slowly, like a man counting money. "See, Audrey? This is the woman I married."

That month, I wore the navy dress to his company gala. I laughed at his jokes. I let his CFO's wife touch my belly and coo.

"You two are goals," she said.

"He's wonderful," I said. Preston squeezed my waist.

He stopped checking my phone. Mallory stopped hiding.

I found them in the kitchen first, her back pressed against the fridge, his mouth on her neck. I turned around and walked out. Then on the balcony, her arms wrapped around him under the string lights I'd hung for our fifth anniversary. Then one Sunday, the downstairs bathroom door was locked, and I heard her giggle through the wood.

I went upstairs. I read Iris a chapter of *Charlotte's Web.*

One evening, Mallory came down the stairs wearing my pearl earrings. My grandmother's.

She tilted her head toward Preston. "Do I look like the real Mrs. Callahan?"

He glanced at me. Then back at her.

"Closer every day," he said.

My nails dug half-moons into my palm. I said nothing. I took my progesterone with a glass of water and went to bed.

At night, Iris kicked. Little flutters at first, then real thumps. I sat on the floor of the nursery, in the dark, between the crib and the rocking chair, and cried until my ribs ached.

"Soon," I whispered to her. "We're leaving soon. I promise."

---

In my last month, Preston packed a bag.

"Client trip. Miami. Three days."

"Is Mallory going?"

"She's handling my schedule." He zipped the bag without looking up. "Don't start."

Two days later, my water broke on the kitchen tile.

At St. Augustine's, a nurse held out a clipboard. "Emergency C-section. Baby's heart rate is dropping. Is there anyone—"

"No." I took the pen. My hand was shaking so badly the signature looked like a seismograph. "Just me."

She called him anyway. I heard her side of it from the hallway.

"Sir, your wife is in surgery—yes—no, she didn't—" A pause. Her voice went flat. "I'll tell her."

She came back to my bed and wouldn't meet my eyes.

"What did he say?"

"He said he can't get a flight back tonight." She hesitated. "And that you shouldn't use giving birth to make him come home."

I laughed. It came out wet.

"Okay," I said. "Thank you for telling me the truth."

Iris was born at 3:12 a.m. Six pounds, one ounce. She screamed like she was furious at the whole world.

Good, I thought. Stay furious.

Preston showed up two days later with a tan line and a bouquet from the gift shop. He scooped Iris up, angled her toward the window light, and snapped twelve photos.

"Sending this to the whole office." His thumbs flew. "*Meet the heir to Callahan Freight.* They're going to lose it."

Iris started wailing.

He held her out to me at arm's length, like a package with the wrong address. His phone buzzed. Mallory's name glowed on the screen.

"Gotta take this."

He was out the door before I'd even settled her against my chest.

---

The board meeting started at ten. By ten-twenty, I was in an elevator at Royce Group headquarters, Iris strapped to my chest, a diaper bag cutting into my shoulder.

"Mr. Royce doesn't take walk-ins," the assistant said. His name tag read *Daniel Okafor.*

"Tell him it's about Delmore Clinic."

Daniel's eyebrows rose. He picked up the phone.

Ninety seconds later, I was inside.

Kellan stood behind his desk. He didn't sit. His eyes went to the baby, and something in his jaw locked.

"Daniel. Take the child to the lounge."

"She has a name," I said.

"Take her to the lounge."

Daniel lifted Iris gently from the carrier. She fussed. The door to the side room closed, and then Kellan crossed the office and shut the main door too. The lock snapped.

"Talk."

"I don't know how to make this easier—"

"Don't make it easier. Make it fast." He came around the desk. "What makes you think that child is mine?"

"Delmore Clinic. Dr. Helena Shaw. Sample number RX-4471." I made myself hold his stare. "You banked it four years ago before your surgery. They used it in my transfer by mistake."

He went very still.

Then he moved.

He stepped forward, and I stepped back, and my calves hit the leather sofa. I dropped onto the cushion. He planted one knee between my thighs and braced a hand on the backrest beside my head. Cedar. Cold eyes. Too close.

"Let me guess," he said quietly. "You found out months ago. You said nothing. You carried it anyway. And now you walk in here with a baby and a sample number." His voice turned to ice. "Why on earth would you think I'd claim a child you had behind my back?"

My hand swung before I decided to swing it.

The crack echoed off the glass walls.

His head turned with it. For a second, neither of us breathed.

Then he pulled back. He stood, straightened his jacket, and put the whole width of the coffee table between us. A red mark bloomed on his cheek. He didn't touch it.

"I didn't come for your money." My voice shook, and I hated it. "I don't want a check. I don't want your name. And I will never hand Iris to anyone. Not to you. Not to anybody."

"Then why are you here?"

"Because you deserve to know she exists." I stood. "That's all. Now you know."

I opened the lounge door. Iris was red-faced and howling in Daniel's arms.

"I'm sorry," Daniel said. "She hasn't stopped."

I took her and turned back toward the main door. Kellan was standing right there, blocking the way. I hadn't heard him move.

"Excuse me," I said.

Iris flailed. Her tiny fist smacked against his hand, caught his index finger, and held on.

She stopped crying.

Just like that. Silence. Her wet eyes blinked up at him.

Kellan didn't move. I watched his shoulders go rigid, like someone had pressed a blade to his spine. This was the man who'd yanked his wrist away from my fingers at the Lennox.

He didn't pull his finger back.

"Mr. Royce?" Daniel said carefully.

Kellan swallowed. His eyes never left her face.

"Schedule a paternity test," he said. "Today. Private lab. No records leave this building."

"Yes, sir."

Then he looked at me, and his voice dropped low enough that only I could hear.

"Until the results come back, neither of you disappears."

Iris squeezed his finger tighter.

In my bag, my phone started buzzing. I didn't have to look. Only one person called four times in a row.

Kellan's gaze dropped to the screen glowing through the mesh pocket.

*Preston.*

"Answer it," he said. "I want to hear how he talks to you."