The rooftop in Brooklyn smelled like charcoal smoke and expensive cologne. I stood near the railing with my hand on my belly, feeling the baby shift beneath my palm. Seven months. The dress I wore was loose, navy blue, chosen because it hid things.

Declan was across the terrace with his friends. Marcus Hale. Tyler Chen. Evan something-or-other. The Wall Street pack. They stood in a tight circle, laughing too loud, holding beers like trophies. Declan's back was to me. It usually was.

I should have left an hour ago. My feet hurt. My back ached. But Declan had asked me to come, and I still believed that meant something.

"Charlee!" Marcus waved me over. His smile was wide and wet. "Get over here."

I walked slowly. The baby pressed against my ribs.

Marcus pulled something from his jacket pocket. A rubber stamp. The kind you'd buy at a novelty shop. He held it up like a prize. "Check this out. Anti-cheating seal. For the wives."

The men laughed. Tyler slapped Marcus on the back.

I looked at Declan. He was grinning. Not at me. At them.

"Let's try it," Marcus said.

I stepped back. "That's not funny."

"Come on." Marcus moved closer. "It's a joke."

"I'm going home." I turned.

Hands grabbed my arms. Tyler on one side. Evan on the other. I twisted, tried to pull away, but they were strong and I was pregnant and off-balance.

"Declan." My voice came out high. "Declan, tell them to stop."

He took a sip of his beer. "Relax. It's just a stamp."

Marcus pressed the stamp to an ink pad. The sound was soft. A kiss of rubber on felt.

I struggled harder. "Let me go."

They pushed me down into a chair. Someone held my shoulders. Someone else gripped my wrists. I kicked, but my center of gravity was all wrong. The baby made me slow.

Marcus leaned in. His breath smelled like beer and onions. He pressed the stamp to my face. My cheekbone. The bridge of my nose. I felt the cold ink, the pressure, the heat of his hand.

"Breeding sow," Tyler said, laughing. "That's what she looks like."

The men roared. Phones came out. Flashes went off.

I stopped fighting. I went still. I looked at Declan.

He was smiling at his phone. Taking a photo.

When they let me go, I stood. My legs shook. I picked up the nearest glass—whiskey, half-melted ice—and threw it at Declan. It hit his chest. Liquid spread across his shirt.

The laughter stopped.

I walked to the elevator. No one followed me.

The ink was still wet on my face when I got to the street.

---

The next night, Declan came home late. He smelled like perfume I didn't wear.

I was in the kitchen, making tea. Chamomile. The only thing that helped with the nausea.

"You hungry?" I asked.

"Nah." He opened the fridge. Pulled out a beer.

I poured the tea. Sat at the table. "We need to talk about last night."

"What about it?"

"Your friends held me down. They stamped my face."

He shrugged. "It was a joke."

"It wasn't funny."

"You threw a drink at me."

"Because you let them—"

"You're being dramatic." He twisted the cap off the beer. "You always do this."

I held my left wrist with my right hand. Pressed my thumb into the pulse point. Counted.

Declan opened a takeout container. Shrimp pad thai. The smell hit me immediately. Sharp. Fishy. Wrong.

"I can't be around that," I said. "You know I'm allergic."

"You're fine."

"I'm not. Please put it away."

He scooped a forkful and held it toward me. "Try it."

"Declan—"

"One bite. Stop being so dramatic."

"I'll go into anaphylaxis."

"You won't." He stepped closer. "Open your mouth."

I stood. Backed toward the door.

He followed. Cornered me against the counter. Held the fork near my face. "Eat it."

I turned my head. He grabbed my jaw. Forced my mouth open. Shoved the fork in.

I gagged. Spit it into the sink. Shrimp and noodles and sauce.

He laughed. Took a photo with his phone.

Twenty minutes later, my face started to swell. My lips ballooned. Hives crawled up my neck, across my chest. I took two Benadryl and sat on the bathroom floor, waiting.

Declan came to the door. Took another photo. "You look insane," he said.

I heard his phone buzz. Buzz. Buzz. The group chat. I knew without looking.

I pressed my forehead to the cool tile and held my wrist and counted my breaths until the swelling went down.

---

Three days later, Declan took a call at dinner. His face lit up. Not the polite smile he used with clients. Something real.

"Hey," he said into the phone. His voice was soft. "Yeah. I'm free."

I looked at my plate. Pasta I'd made from scratch. He hadn't touched it.

When he hung up, I asked, "Who was that?"

"Work."

"It didn't sound like work."

"You're imagining things."

"Declan—"

"This is why no one wants to be around you." He stood. Grabbed his jacket. "You're hormonal. You're paranoid. I can't do this right now."

He left.

I sat alone at the table, staring at the two plates, the candles I'd lit, the pasta going cold.

My phone buzzed. A notification. Instagram. Declan had been tagged in a photo.

I opened it.

Him. A woman. Her hand on his arm. She was beautiful. Thin. Not swollen. Not pregnant. Her smile was sharp and white.

The caption: *Perfect night with my favorite person.*

I zoomed in on her face. Selena Meyer. I didn't know her. But I would.

Declan told me about the party on Thursday. He didn't ask. He informed.

"Saturday night. SoHo loft. Wear something nice."

I was folding laundry. The baby kicked against my ribs. Eight months now. Everything hurt.

"I'm tired," I said. "Can I skip this one?"

"No." He scrolled through his phone. "Selena will be there. It'll look weird if you don't come."

Selena. The woman from the Instagram photo. The one with the sharp white smile.

I pressed my thumb into my left wrist. Counted to ten. "Okay."

Friday night, he laid a dress on the bed. Red. Tight. The fabric clung to every curve, every swell.

"I can't wear that," I said.

"Why not?"

"Look at me." I gestured to my belly. "I'm huge."

"You look fine."

"Declan—"

"Don't be boring, Charlee." He walked out. "Wear the dress."

I held it up to the mirror. The neckline plunged. The hem barely covered my thighs. I looked like someone playing dress-up in the wrong costume.

But I wore it.

---

The loft was all exposed brick and Edison bulbs. People held champagne flutes and spoke in low, important voices. I walked behind Declan, one hand on my belly, the other clutching my purse.

Selena found us within minutes.

"Declan!" She kissed both his cheeks. European style. Her perfume was expensive. Jasmine and something darker.

She looked at me. Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "You must be Charlee."

"Hi."

"Congratulations." She gestured to my belly. "When are you due?"

"Four weeks."

"How exciting." She touched Declan's arm. Her nails were painted deep red. "Come. I want to show you the installation."

We followed her through the crowd. People stared. Not at Declan. At me. At the dress that didn't fit. At the belly that didn't belong.

The installation was in the center of the loft. A glass-walled atrium, maybe fifteen feet across. Inside, the floor was covered in white foam. Thick, decorative clouds of it. Overhead lights turned it blue, then pink, then gold.

"It's an interactive piece," Selena explained. "You're supposed to walk through it. Feel the texture. Become part of the art."

Declan grinned. "Charlee should do it."

I looked at him. "What?"

"Go inside. Dance a little." He raised his voice. People turned. "Come on, babe. Don't be shy."

Marcus appeared beside us, beer in hand. "Do it! Pregnancy dance!"

Laughter rippled through the crowd.

I shook my head. "The floor's slippery. I'll fall."

"You won't fall," Declan said. His smile was tight. "Don't embarrass me."

Selena leaned in, her voice soft. "It's perfectly safe. I walked through it earlier."

I looked at the foam. The glass walls. The faces pressed close, watching.

"Declan, please—"

"Just do it." His hand gripped my elbow. Not hard. But firm. "Two minutes. Then we can go."

I stepped toward the atrium. The glass door swung open. The foam smelled chemical. Sweet and wrong.

I took off my heels. Held them in one hand. Stepped inside.

The foam was cold. It shifted under my feet. I took another step. The door swung shut behind me.

Outside the glass, people clapped. Phones came up. Flashes went off.

"Dance!" someone shouted.

I swayed. Barely. My hand stayed on my belly, steadying.

The baby kicked. Hard. I winced.

I took another step. My foot slipped. I caught myself. Breathed.

Then I saw it.

A glint of light in the foam. Something metallic. I looked up.

Selena stood at the edge of the atrium. Her hand was at the glass. Her fingers open. Empty.

I looked down again. A ring. Diamond. Cocktail-style. Half-buried in the foam directly in my path.

I tried to step around it.

My foot slipped.

I went down hard. Hip first. Then shoulder. My head cracked against the glass wall.

The world tilted.

I heard shouting. Muffled. Far away.

Warmth spread between my legs. Not foam. Something else. Something wet and wrong.

I tried to stand. Couldn't. My hands slipped in the foam. My belly cramped. A fist closing inside me.

"Help," I whispered.

Outside the glass, Declan stood with his arms crossed. He was talking to Marcus. Laughing.

I screamed. "Declan!"

He glanced at me. Shook his head. Turned back to Marcus.

The cramp came again. Harder. I doubled over. Blood mixed with foam. Pink swirls in white clouds.

Someone finally opened the door.

A woman I didn't know. She knelt beside me. Her face was pale. "Oh my God. Someone call an ambulance."

I looked past her. Through the glass.

Selena was gone.

Declan was on his phone.

The baby wasn't moving anymore.

I closed my eyes and held my wrist and counted and counted and counted.

The foam swallowed the sound when I hit the floor.

I went down hip first. Then shoulder. My head cracked against the glass wall. The world spun. Colors bled together—blue foam, pink lights, gold reflections.

I tried to get up. My hands slipped. The foam was everywhere. In my hair. On my face. Cold and chemical-sweet.

Something warm spread between my legs.

Not foam.

I looked down. Red mixed with white. Pink swirls spreading through the decorative clouds.

"Help." My voice came out small. The glass walls ate the sound.

I pressed my hand to my belly. The baby wasn't moving.

"Help!" Louder this time. I looked through the glass.

Declan stood five feet away. Arms crossed. He was talking to Marcus. Both of them looking at their phones.

I slammed my palm against the glass. "Declan!"

He glanced up. Our eyes met.

He shook his head. Turned back to Marcus. Said something. Marcus laughed.

The cramp came then. A fist closing inside me. I doubled over. Foam pressed into my face. I couldn't breathe.

"She's putting on a show," Declan's voice filtered through the glass. Distant. Amused. "She does this."

I screamed. No words. Just sound.

People gathered outside the atrium. Phones up. Recording. No one reached for the door.

The cramp came again. Harder. I felt something tear inside me. Something fundamental giving way.

I crawled toward the door. Left a trail of red. My hands kept slipping. The foam was too thick. Too slick.

"Please." I pressed my face to the glass. Looked at the crowd. "Please open the door."

A woman in a black dress looked away. A man took a photo.

Selena stood at the edge of the crowd. She was smiling. Not the polite smile from earlier. Something else. Something that reached her eyes.

She lifted her phone. Took a photo of me through the glass.

The world tilted again. I lay down in the foam. Too tired to fight. The baby still wasn't moving.

I held my left wrist with my right hand. Pressed my thumb into the pulse point. Counted.

One. Two. Three.

The door finally opened.

A woman I didn't know knelt beside me. Her face was white. "Oh my God. Someone call an ambulance."

Hands lifted me. Voices shouted. The world blurred.

I looked for Declan.

He was gone.

---

The ambulance smelled like antiseptic and old blood.

A paramedic pressed an oxygen mask to my face. "Stay with me. What's your name?"

"Charlee."

"How far along are you, Charlee?"

"Eight months."

Her face changed. She looked at her partner. Said something I couldn't hear.

The siren wailed. I closed my eyes.

The baby still wasn't moving.

---

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

A hospital room. Pale green walls. The smell of bleach and something underneath it. Something rotting.

I tried to sit up. Pain shot through my belly. I gasped.

A nurse appeared. Middle-aged. Kind eyes. "Easy. Don't move too fast."

"My baby."

She didn't answer right away. She adjusted the IV in my arm. Checked the monitor.

"Where's my baby?"

She sat on the edge of the bed. Took my hand. "I'm so sorry."

I stared at her.

"We did everything we could. The trauma was too severe. There was too much bleeding."

I pulled my hand away. Pressed it to my belly. Flat. Empty.

"No."

"I'm so sorry," she said again.

I turned my face to the wall.

The nurse left.

My phone was on the bedside table. I reached for it. My hands shook.

Seven new messages. All from a number I didn't recognize.

I opened them.

*Congratulations. One less obstacle.*

*You really committed to the performance. Oscar-worthy.*

*Declan's free now. You're welcome.*

*Don't bother coming back. He doesn't want you anymore.*

*PS—Your face looked hilarious in the foam. I sent the photos to some friends.*

*Hope your dad enjoys them too.*

*You're welcome.*

I read them twice. Three times. The words didn't change.

The door opened. A different nurse. Younger. Nervous.

"Ms. Perkins? I need to inform you—your father, Gregory Perkins, was admitted an hour ago. He's in the ICU."

I looked at her.

"He collapsed at home. Cardiac arrest. A neighbor found him. He had his phone in his hand. The screen was still on."

She paused. Looked at the floor.

"There were photos. On his phone. The doctors think the shock—"

I stopped listening.

I put the phone down. Stared at the white ceiling tiles.

My baby was gone. My father was dying. Declan had watched me bleed and done nothing. Selena had sent the photos that stopped my father's heart.

I held my left wrist with my right hand. Pressed my thumb into the pulse.

Counted.

One. Two. Three.

Something inside me went quiet. Not sad. Not angry. Just quiet.

I stopped counting.

I didn't cry.

I started planning.