I was glowing. That's what Mom kept saying at the shower. 'Look at you, Scarlet. You're glowing.' She touched my face like I was made of something precious. Like I might break if she pressed too hard.

I didn't feel breakable. I felt solid. Seven months pregnant, my belly round and tight, and I felt like I'd finally built something that couldn't be taken apart. A life. A real one. The kind my parents had. The kind where love was steady and small and showed up every single day.

Mom threw the shower at her house in New Jersey. The living room was full of women I'd known my whole life. Aunts. Cousins. My best friend from college. They drank mimosas and I drank sparkling water and everyone laughed at the tiny onesies with the dumb slogans. 'I'm the reason Mommy drinks.' 'Daddy's little tax deduction.' I folded each one carefully and put them in a gift bag.

Ethan, my older brother, stuck his head in once to grab a beer from the garage fridge. He saw the pile of gifts and shook his head. 'You're gonna need a bigger apartment,' he said.

'We'll manage,' I told him.

He looked at me for a second longer than usual. Then he nodded and left.

I stayed until four. Mom wanted me to stay for dinner, but I was tired. My back hurt. And I wanted to show Rowen the onesies. I wanted to see his face when I pulled out the one that said 'Made with Love.' I wanted him to put his hand on my belly and feel the baby kick and tell me everything was going to be perfect.

I drove back into the city with the gift bag on the passenger seat. Traffic was light. The sun was low and gold through the windshield. I felt full. Not just my belly. My whole chest. My whole life.

I let myself into the apartment with my key. It was quiet. Rowen's shoes were by the door. His jacket was on the chair. He was home.

'Rowen?' I called softly.

No answer.

I set the gift bag on the kitchen counter and walked down the hall. The bedroom door was half open. I pushed it the rest of the way.

Rowen was in our bed. Cassandra was under him.

I stopped breathing.

They didn't hear me at first. Then Rowen turned his head. His face went white. He scrambled off her so fast he nearly fell. Cassandra sat up and pulled the sheet to her chest. Her lipstick was smeared. Her hair was everywhere.

'Scarlet—' Rowen started.

I couldn't move. I stood in the doorway holding a bag of baby clothes and stared at the two of them in my bed. In the bed where I slept every night. In the bed where we'd made the baby.

'It's not—' Rowen said. 'It's not what it looks like.'

Cassandra made a small sound. A sob. She covered her face with her hands. 'I'm so sorry,' she whispered. 'I'm so sorry, Scarlet. I was drunk. I didn't mean—'

'She came over,' Rowen said quickly. He was pulling on his pants. His hands were shaking. 'She was upset. She had too much to drink. She—she came onto me. I tried to stop her, but—'

'I'm so sorry,' Cassandra said again. She was crying now. Real tears. Her mascara ran down her cheeks. 'I don't know what I was thinking. I'm such a mess. I'm so, so sorry.'

I looked at Rowen. He looked back at me. His eyes were wide and wet and desperate.

'It was one second,' he said. 'One stupid second. I swear to God, Scarlet, it will never happen again. I love you. I love you and the baby. This was nothing. It was a mistake. Please.'

Cassandra stood up. She wrapped the sheet around herself and moved toward the door. Toward me. 'I'll go,' she said quietly. 'I'm so sorry. I'll leave. You'll never see me again.'

She walked past me. I smelled her perfume. The same perfume she always wore. The same perfume that was on Rowen's shirts sometimes when he came home late.

I stood in the doorway. My back hurt. My belly was tight. The baby kicked once, hard, right under my ribs.

Rowen came closer. He didn't touch me. He just stood there, shaking, waiting.

'Please,' he whispered. 'Please, Scarlet. Don't do this. Don't throw away everything we have. It was nothing. I swear. It was nothing.'

I looked at him. I looked at the bed. I looked at the baby clothes in my hand.

I thought about calling my mom. I thought about packing a bag. I thought about walking out and never coming back.

But the baby was coming in two months. I had a crib on order. I had a hospital bag half-packed. I had a life I'd spent years building.

I couldn't take it apart. Not now. Not this close.

So I made myself believe him.

I made myself believe it was one mistake. One drunk night. One stupid second.

I made myself believe that when the baby came, everything would be different.

'Okay,' I said quietly.

Rowen's face collapsed with relief. He reached for me. I stepped back.

'But she doesn't come here again,' I said. 'Ever.'

'Never,' Rowen said. 'I promise. Never again.'

I turned and walked back down the hall. I put the baby clothes on the kitchen counter. I went into the guest bathroom and locked the door.

Then I sat on the floor and pressed my hands to my belly and told my baby that everything was going to be okay.

I told myself the same thing.

I was wrong.

Three weeks after I found them in my bed, I was alone in the apartment on a Tuesday night.

Rowen was working late. That's what he said. I didn't ask where.

I was heating up soup on the stove when the first cramp hit. Not a kick. Not the baby moving. A cramp. Low and sharp and wrong.

I turned off the burner. I put my hand on the counter. I waited.

It came again. Harder this time. A twisting pull that made me gasp.

Then something warm ran down my legs.

I looked down. Water. Clear at first. Then pink. Then red.

I couldn't breathe.

I stumbled to the bathroom. My legs were shaking. The cramping was constant now. Wave after wave. I gripped the edge of the sink and tried to think.

Eight months. Not yet. Not now. Too early.

I fumbled for my phone in my pocket. My hands were wet. I almost dropped it.

I called Rowen.

It rang twice. Three times. Four.

Then he picked up.

'Hey,' he said. His voice was distant. Distracted.

'Rowen—' My voice cracked. 'Rowen, something's wrong. My water broke. I'm bleeding. I need—'

'Wait, what?' he said. 'Slow down. What's happening?'

'My water broke,' I said again. I was shaking so hard I could barely hold the phone. 'I'm bleeding. The baby—Rowen, I think the baby's coming. I need you to—'

'Okay, okay,' he said. 'Just—hold on a second.'

Then I heard her voice in the background.

Cassandra.

'Rowen, it hurts,' she whimpered. 'It's bleeding so much. I think I need stitches.'

'I know, I know,' Rowen said. His voice was soft. Soothing. The voice he used to use with me. 'Let me see it. Okay. It's not that bad. We'll wrap it up.'

'Rowen,' I said. My voice was louder now. Desperate. 'Rowen, are you listening to me? I need you. The baby—'

'Scarlet, just—just call 911 or something,' he said quickly. 'I can't leave right now. Cassandra cut her finger really bad. There's blood everywhere. I need to get her to urgent care.'

I stopped breathing.

'What?' I whispered.

'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I'll come as soon as I can. Just call an ambulance. They'll get you to the hospital faster than I can anyway. I'll meet you there. I promise.'

Another cramp hit. I doubled over. The phone slipped in my hand.

'Rowen, please—'

'I have to go,' he said. 'Call 911. I'll be there soon.'

The line went dead.

I stared at the phone. At the black screen. At my own reflection in the glass.

Then I screamed.

I screamed his name into the empty bathroom. Into the dead phone. Into the air.

No one answered.

I called 911. My voice didn't sound like mine. I gave them the address. I told them I was eight months pregnant. I told them I was bleeding. I told them to hurry.

The dispatcher asked me questions. I answered. I don't remember what I said.

The cramping got worse. I couldn't stand anymore. I slid down to the floor. The tile was cold. I pressed my back against the bathtub and pulled my knees up as much as I could.

I put my hand on my belly. The baby wasn't moving.

'Please,' I whispered. 'Please, baby. Please hold on.'

I gripped the edge of the sink above me. The porcelain bit into my palm. I held on so hard I felt something split. Warm blood ran down my wrist.

I didn't let go.

Time stopped making sense. The cramping came in waves. I heard sirens. I heard pounding on the front door. I heard men's voices shouting.

I couldn't move. I couldn't get up. I couldn't unlock the door.

They broke it down.

Footsteps in the hall. In the bedroom. Then the bathroom door opened.

Two paramedics. A man and a woman. They knelt beside me. They asked me questions. They touched my belly. They put something under me. They said words I didn't understand.

The woman looked at the man. Her face changed.

'We need to move now,' she said.

They lifted me onto a stretcher. The lights in the hallway were too bright. The elevator was too slow. The ambulance was too loud.

Somewhere between the apartment and the hospital, the cramping stopped.

The baby stopped.

Everything stopped.

When they wheeled me into the emergency room, a doctor pressed a stethoscope to my belly. She moved it around. She pressed harder. She looked at a nurse.

'Page OB,' she said quietly. 'And get me an ultrasound. Now.'

I stared at the ceiling. At the fluorescent lights. At the white tiles.

I still had my phone in my hand.

Rowen never called back.

Rowen showed up six hours later.

I was in a room on the fourth floor. White walls. White sheets. A machine beeping next to the bed. I stared at the ceiling and listened to the beep. It was steady. Regular. The only thing in the world that made sense.

The door opened. I turned my head.

Rowen stood in the doorway. His shirt was wrinkled. Buttoned wrong. One side of the collar stuck up higher than the other. His hair was messy. He looked tired.

He didn't look devastated.

He walked to the bed. He didn't sit. He stood at the foot and put his hands in his pockets.

'Hey,' he said quietly.

I didn't answer.

'How are you feeling?' he asked.

I stared at him. At the crooked buttons. At the faint smudge of lipstick on his collar. At the way he wouldn't meet my eyes.

'Where were you?' I whispered.

He shifted his weight. 'I told you. Cassandra cut her finger. It was bad. I had to take her to urgent care. They had to do stitches. It took forever.'

'Six hours,' I said.

'There was a wait,' he said. 'I came as soon as I could.'

I looked at the ceiling again. At the white tiles. At the fluorescent light that buzzed faintly in the corner.

'The baby's gone,' I said.

Silence.

'I know,' Rowen said finally. 'The nurse told me. I'm sorry.'

I closed my eyes.

'You need to get some perspective,' he said. His voice was firmer now. 'This isn't anyone's fault. These things happen. The doctor said it was just—bad luck. You can't blame yourself. And you can't blame me.'

I opened my eyes.

'I called you,' I said. 'I was bleeding on the bathroom floor and I called you. And you hung up.'

'I didn't hang up,' he said quickly. 'I told you to call 911. That was the right thing to do. They got you here faster than I could have. I made the right call.'

'You chose her,' I whispered.

'I chose to help someone who was hurt,' he said. 'Cassandra was in pain. She needed stitches. What was I supposed to do? Leave her there bleeding?'

'Yes,' I said.

He stared at me. Then he shook his head. 'You're not thinking straight. You're upset. I get it. But you need to calm down.'

I turned my face to the wall.

The door opened again.

Mrs. Daniels.

She wore a navy dress. Pearls. Her hair was perfect. She carried a small bouquet of white lilies wrapped in clear plastic. She walked to the windowsill and set them down without looking at me.

Then she turned. She folded her hands in front of her and looked at me the way you'd look at a child who'd made a mess.

'Scarlet,' she said quietly. 'How are you feeling?'

I didn't answer.

She sighed. A small, patient sound. 'This is very difficult,' she said. 'For everyone. But we need to be realistic about what happened here.'

I looked at her.

'You've always been a very anxious person,' she continued. 'Very emotional. Rowen has mentioned it to me many times. The stress you put on yourself—and on him—it's not healthy. Doctors will tell you that stress affects a pregnancy. It affects everything.'

I couldn't breathe.

'I'm not saying it's your fault,' she said gently. 'But you have to take responsibility for your own well-being. And for the environment you create. This constant drama—it takes a toll.'

Rowen shifted beside her. He didn't say anything.

'Rowen is a good man,' Mrs. Daniels said. 'He's been very patient. Very understanding. But he deserves to be happy. He deserves to find peace. And if you can't give him that—'

She stopped. She looked at me with something that might have been pity.

'Well,' she said softly. 'Perhaps it's time to think about what's best for everyone.'

I stared at her. At the pearls. At the flowers she hadn't handed me. At the son standing silent beside her.

Then I looked at Rowen.

'I want a divorce,' I said.

Rowen laughed. A short, sharp sound. 'Come on,' he said. 'You don't mean that.'

'I want a divorce,' I said again.

Mrs. Daniels stepped forward. She reached out and patted my hand. Her fingers were cold.

'You're being dramatic, dear,' she said. 'You've been through a trauma. You're not thinking clearly. Get some rest. We'll talk about this when you're feeling better.'

She turned to Rowen. 'Let's let her sleep,' she said.

They walked to the door together. Rowen glanced back once. Then they were gone.

I lay in the white bed in the white room and listened to the machine beep.

I put my hand on my belly. It was soft now. Empty.

I thought about the ultrasound photo in my wallet. The one the nurse had pulled out for me when I asked. The tiny profile. The curve of a nose. The fist pressed to a cheek.

I thought about the bathroom floor. The cold tile. The blood.

I thought about Rowen's voice on the phone. *Call 911 or something.*

I thought about Cassandra's whimper in the background. *It hurts.*

I closed my eyes.

I didn't cry.

I was done crying.