I started keeping the notebook in March.

It wasn't planned. I just needed to see it written down, needed proof I wasn't imagining the pattern. Black ink on white paper. Dates. Times. What Kensley said. What Cassian did.

March 14th. Dinner reservation, our first in weeks. Cassian's phone lit up at 7:43. Kensley's voice, breathy and scared: "There's someone outside my apartment. I can hear them trying the door." Cassian left before our appetizers arrived. Came back three hours later. No one had been there. Building security confirmed it.

March 29th. Cassian's mother's birthday. Family photos on the terrace. Kensley grabbed her throat mid-smile, gasping. Shellfish allergy, she said. Except I'd watched her eat shrimp cocktail twenty minutes earlier. Cassian carried her inside. I stood alone in the photo.

April 10th. Cassian came home early. Found me reading in the library. Sat down. Asked about my day. We talked for eleven minutes. His phone rang. Kensley, crying. A date had gone badly. She needed him. He left. I timed it. Eleven minutes. That was all we got.

I wrote it all down. Thirty-seven incidents over four months. Each one timed to the precise moment something might shift between us. A dinner. A conversation. A morning where he'd smiled at me over coffee.

Every single time, Kensley called. Every single time, Cassian left.

I wasn't angry anymore. Anger required hope. I was just documenting. Building a case no one would ever see.

Except tonight, Cassian saw it.

I'd fallen asleep at the kitchen table, notebook open, pen still in my hand. I woke to the sound of his key in the lock. 2:47 AM. He'd been at Kensley's since nine.

He stopped when he saw me. Saw the notebook.

"What's that?"

I could have lied. Should have. But I was tired, and some part of me—small, stupid, still hoping—thought maybe if he just looked, really looked, he'd see what I saw.

"A record," I said.

He crossed the kitchen. Picked up the notebook. Started reading.

I watched his face. Waited for recognition. Understanding. Something.

His expression went cold.

"You've been tracking her?"

"I've been tracking the pattern," I said carefully. "Look at the dates. Every time we—every time something might happen between us, she calls. Every time."

Cassian flipped through the pages. His jaw tightened with each one.

"This is sick, Sierra."

The words hit like a slap.

"Cassian, just look at the timing—"

"I'm looking at my wife obsessing over my best friend." He slammed the notebook on the table. "Documenting her life like some kind of stalker. Do you hear yourself?"

"I'm not obsessing. I'm showing you—"

"You're showing me that you're jealous." He leaned forward, hands flat on the table. "That you can't stand the fact that I care about someone who actually needs me. Someone who saved my life."

There it was. Always back to that. The rescue. The debt. The story Kensley had stolen and I'd never corrected because I'd been seven years old and scared and stupid enough to think the truth didn't matter if the right thing had happened anyway.

"She's manipulating you," I said quietly.

"She's hurting." Cassian's voice dropped, each word deliberate. "And instead of supporting her like a sister should, you're sitting here in the dark making lists of her suffering like it's evidence of some conspiracy."

"It's not a conspiracy. It's a pattern."

"It's pathetic."

The word hung in the air between us.

Cassian straightened. Picked up the notebook. For a second I thought he might read it again, might actually look.

He swept it off the table instead. It hit the floor, pages scattering.

"Get help, Sierra," he said. "This jealousy is poisoning you."

He walked out. Bedroom door closed. Lock clicked.

I sat there for a long time, looking at the scattered pages on the kitchen floor. Four months of documentation. Dates. Times. Proof.

It didn't matter.

I got down on my knees. Gathered the pages one by one. Smoothed them flat. Put them back in order.

My hands didn't shake. That surprised me.

I closed the notebook. Stood. Walked to my study—the small room off the living room that Cassian never entered because it was mine and nothing of mine interested him.

I locked the notebook in my desk drawer. Not hiding it. Just putting it away.

Something behind my ribs shifted. Not breaking. Rearranging. Like furniture moved in a room I'd lived in all my life, suddenly making the space unrecognizable.

I pulled out my phone. Romeo's last text was from yesterday: *Coffee tomorrow? No agenda. Just want to see you.*

I typed: *Yes.*

Then I added: *Thank you for asking.*

I hit send. Turned off the light. Sat in the dark in my study, in my chair, in the one room in this penthouse that was mine.

I wasn't angry. I wasn't hurt. I was something else entirely.

I was done.

The text came at 6:12 PM, while I was still in the office, signing off on a vendor contract with a pen that suddenly felt too heavy to hold.

A photo first. Grainy black and white. A curved shape on a dark field, the kind of image I'd seen in enough magazines to recognize instantly.

Then the words.

*Cassian's going to be a father. Thought you should hear it from family 💕.*

I read it three times. The letters didn't rearrange themselves into something less true no matter how long I stared.

My hand went cold around the pen. Then my whole arm. Then something deeper, something under the ribs, folding in on itself like paper catching fire from the inside.

I didn't cry. I'd learned better than that months ago. I just sat there, staring at a photo of a heartbeat that wasn't mine, that had no business being anyone's, and felt the floor of my life tilt six inches to the left.

My phone rang before I could set it down.

Kensley.

I almost didn't answer. Some old instinct, some small surviving piece of self-preservation, told me not to. But I'd spent my whole life answering when she called, and old habits don't die just because you've decided to kill them.

"Sierra." Her voice was honey poured over glass. "You got my text."

"Is it true?"

A pause, long enough to be theater. "I didn't want you finding out some other way. From tabloids, or—"

"Is it true, Kensley?"

"Come talk to me." Her voice dropped, softened, took on that practiced tremor she used when she wanted something to sound like vulnerability instead of strategy. "Not over the phone. Not like this. Meet me at the estate. The rooftop pool, tonight, just us. I want to look you in the eye when I tell you everything."

Every instinct I had, the ones sharpened over a decade of watching her operate, told me this was a stage being built. I could hear the hammer and nails in the careful gentleness of her voice.

But I needed to see her face. I needed to know, one way or another, exactly what I was standing on before I decided where to walk next.

"Fine," I said. "Tonight."

I hung up before she could add anything else, before she could layer one more brick of false comfort onto a conversation that already felt like a trap dressed up as a bridge.

---

I didn't tell Romeo about the ultrasound. I didn't tell him about the pool, or what I suspected waited for me there. Some things I still couldn't say out loud, not because I didn't trust him, but because saying them made them real in a way I wasn't ready for.

But I told him everything else. We sat on his fire escape, the city humming below us, a bottle of wine between us that neither of us had touched much.

"I don't know how to explain it," I said, watching a plane blink its way across the sky. "It's like I've been holding my breath for ten years and I forgot what it feels like to just—breathe. Like the marriage, my family, all of it, it's just weight I picked up so young I don't remember what I felt like without it."

Romeo didn't say anything right away. He just listened, the way he always did, like my words were something worth the full weight of his attention.

"You know what I noticed," he said finally, "the first time I saw you at that gala? You were smiling at everyone. Perfect smile. But your shoulders were up here." He held his hand near his own ear. "Like you were bracing for something to fall."

I laughed, but it came out thin. "Maybe I was."

"You've been holding the ceiling up for everyone else so long," he said quietly, "you've forgotten you're allowed to put it down."

I looked at him. Really looked—at the steadiness in his face, the total absence of anything performative in it. No agenda. No debt he was collecting. Just a man who'd noticed my shoulders were up near my ears and decided that mattered.

I looked away first. Down at the street, at the yellow cabs sliding past like nothing in the world was breaking.

"I should go," I said. "Early morning."

He didn't push. He never did. Just walked me to the door, and at the threshold, he touched my hand—not my wrist, not gripping, just resting his fingers over mine for half a second, like a question he wasn't going to force me to answer.

"Whatever you're carrying," he said, "you don't have to carry it alone."

I nodded, because it was easier than speaking, and I left before he could see whatever was happening on my face.

That night, I lay in the dark of the penthouse, Cassian's side of the bed cold and untouched, and stared at the ceiling until it stopped looking like a ceiling and started looking like something I'd been holding up with my own two hands for ten years.

I didn't sleep. Somewhere past three, I stopped trying. I lay there instead, running my thumb over the phone screen, over Kensley's message, over that grainy photo, and waited for the sun to come up on whatever was waiting for me at that pool.