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.

I went home from the hospital three days later. Mom wanted me to come to Jersey. She stood in the hospital room doorway with her purse clutched to her chest and her eyes red. 'Come home,' she said. 'Please, baby. Come home with me.'

I shook my head. 'I need to go back to the apartment.'

'Why?' she whispered.

I didn't answer.

Ethan drove me. He didn't ask questions. He carried my bag up to the apartment and set it inside the door. Then he looked at me for a long moment.

'You call me,' he said. 'Anytime. You hear me?'

I nodded.

He left.

I stood in the hallway. The apartment was quiet. Too quiet. I walked to the kitchen. The gift bag from the baby shower was still on the counter. The onesies folded inside. I didn't touch it.

I heard voices from the living room.

I walked down the hall. Rowen was on the couch. Cassandra was next to him. She was wearing a robe. My robe. The soft gray one I'd bought when my belly got too big for regular clothes. The one I'd worn the morning my water broke.

She had a mug in her hands. My mug. The blue one with the chipped handle.

Rowen looked up. He stood quickly. 'Scarlet. You're back. How are you feeling?'

I stared at Cassandra. At the robe. At the mug. At the way she sat curled into the corner of my couch like she lived here.

'What is she doing here?' I asked quietly.

Rowen glanced at Cassandra. Then back at me. 'She's staying for a few days. Just until she finds a new place. Her roommate kicked her out. She had nowhere to go.'

'Get out,' I said.

Cassandra's eyes went wide. She set the mug down carefully on the coffee table. 'Scarlet, I know this is hard for you—'

'Get out of my house,' I said again.

Rowen stepped between us. 'Scarlet, stop. You're being cruel. Cassandra is going through a really difficult time. She needs support.'

I looked at him. At the way he stood in front of her. Shielding her. From me.

'I lost my baby,' I whispered.

'I know,' Rowen said. His voice was tight. Impatient. 'And I'm sorry. We're all sorry. But you can't take it out on everyone around you. Cassandra didn't do anything to you.'

I took a step forward. Rowen put his hand on my shoulder. Not gently. He pushed. Hard.

I stumbled back into the hallway wall. My shoulder hit the corner of the picture frame. Pain shot down my arm.

Rowen pointed at me. 'Stop bullying her,' he said. 'She's been through enough. You don't get to make this worse.'

Cassandra stood up slowly. She pulled the robe tighter around herself. She looked at me. Her face was calm. Settled. Almost peaceful.

She wasn't scared of me.

She'd already won.

'I'll go,' she said softly. 'I don't want to cause more problems.'

'No,' Rowen said. 'You're staying. Scarlet needs to calm down.'

I turned and walked to the bedroom. I closed the door. I locked it.

I stood in the middle of the room and looked at the bed. The bed where I'd found them. The bed where I'd slept every night for three years. The bed where I'd dreamed about bringing the baby home.

I walked to the bathroom. I sat on the floor. On the cold tile. In the exact spot where I'd waited for the ambulance.

I pulled my wallet out of my pocket. I opened it. The ultrasound photo was in a clear sleeve behind my driver's license. The tiny profile. The curve of a nose. The fist pressed to a cheek.

I touched the photo through the plastic.

'I'm sorry,' I whispered. 'I'm so sorry I couldn't keep you safe.'

The baby didn't answer. The baby would never answer.

I sat there until the light through the window turned gold. Then orange. Then gray.

Then I stood up. I pulled out my phone. I searched for divorce attorneys in Manhattan. I scrolled through the results. I read reviews. I read bios. I read case histories.

I found Victor Hale. Senior partner. Park Avenue firm. Specializes in high-asset divorce and financial forensics. Known for being ruthless. Known for winning.

I looked at the time. 11:47 p.m.

I called anyway.

The phone rang four times. Then voicemail. A man's voice. Clipped. Professional.

'You've reached Victor Hale. Leave a message.'

I waited for the beep.

'My name is Scarlet Morgan,' I said. My voice was steady. Calm. 'My husband is Rowen Daniels. I need a divorce. And I need to make sure he loses everything.'

I left my number. I hung up.

I put the phone on the bathroom counter. I looked at myself in the mirror. My face was pale. My eyes were hollow. There were dark circles under them that hadn't been there a week ago.

I looked like someone who'd died and forgotten to lie down.

I touched my belly. It was soft. Empty. Wrong.

'I promise,' I whispered to the baby who wasn't there. 'I promise I'll make him pay.'

I went to bed in the guest room. I didn't sleep.

At 8:32 the next morning, my phone rang.

Victor Hale.

I answered.

'Mrs. Morgan,' he said. 'I got your message. Can you be at my office in an hour?'

'Yes,' I said.

'Good,' he said. 'Bring everything you have. Bank statements. Phone records. Anything that proves what you told me last night.'

I hung up. I got dressed. I pulled my laptop out of the closet. I logged into my digital journal. The one I'd kept since college. Password-protected. Cloud-backed. Every entry timestamped.

I scrolled through the last two years. Every late night Rowen came home smelling like her perfume. Every time he said he was working and didn't answer his phone. Every lie I'd swallowed because I wanted to believe him.

I exported the entire file. I saved it to a USB drive.

Then I walked out of the apartment. Rowen was still asleep. Cassandra was asleep next to him on the couch. Her head on his shoulder. My robe pooled around her legs.

I didn't look back.

I took the subway to Park Avenue. I walked into Victor Hale's office at 9:28 a.m.

He was older than I expected. Gray hair. Sharp suit. Eyes that looked like they'd seen every lie a man could tell.

I sat across from him. I put the USB drive on his desk.

'This is everything,' I said. 'Two years of journal entries. Dates. Times. Details.'

He plugged it into his computer. He read in silence. His face didn't change.

After ten minutes, he looked up.

'This is good,' he said. 'But it's not enough. I need financials. I need proof he's been spending marital assets on her. I need phone records from the night you went into labor. Can you get me those?'

I nodded.

'Good,' he said. He leaned back in his chair. 'Mrs. Morgan, I'm going to be very clear with you. If you want to destroy him, we can do that. But it's going to take time. It's going to take patience. And you cannot let him know what you're doing. Can you do that?'

I thought about Cassandra in my robe. About Rowen's hand on my shoulder. About the cold tile under my back while I bled and he chose her.

'Yes,' I said.

Victor smiled. It wasn't a kind smile.

'Then let's get to work,' he said.