Chapter 2

The pain in my lower belly was a dull, constant ache. A reminder. I stared at the ceiling of our apartment, the one we’d decorated together with such hope. I sent Ethan a text. 【We need to talk. I want a divorce.】 My phone rang almost immediately. Ethan. His voice exploded in my ear. “Are you out of your mind? A divorce? Just because I missed one doctor’s appointment? Seriously, Sarah?” The day he proposed, on that little bridge in Central Park, he’d sworn. “Sarah Miller, even when you’re old and gray, I’ll love you for a lifetime.” Now, his laugh was a sneer. “You’re pregnant, emotional. Look at yourself in the mirror. You think anyone else will want you, looking like that? A washed-up musician pushing thirty, all hormonal and needy.” Pregnant. He didn’t even know. “You’re not a kid anymore, Sarah. Stop playing these games. I don’t have time for your drama.” I touched my flat stomach. The baby was gone the night he was bankrolling his “muse,” the night they were creating “studio magic.” I hung up. In the hallway, I could hear the nurses at their station, their voices low but excited. “Did you hear? Tiffany Vance’s family went bankrupt. She auctioned off a private concert and studio session to raise money, and Ethan Cole, the music exec? He outbid everyone! Like, a crazy amount.” “Wow, he just swooped in and saved her! So romantic!” “Yeah, he’s always had a soft spot for her. They say he’s been in love with her for years.” My heart felt like a lead weight. If the man they were talking about wasn’t my husband, I might have wished them well. Before Tiffany returned to New York, Ethan had been… different. Warm milk by my bedside every night. Gentle good morning kisses. Then she came back. Our anniversary dinner? Tiffany had a “crisis” and Ethan rushed to her side. Every date night, every quiet moment, she’d find a way to insert herself. She’d text Ethan constantly, complaining about him, yet always needing him. At my birthday party, she “accidentally” ripped my dress. She knew I was allergic to shellfish, yet she sent over a creamy seafood bisque that landed me in the ER for days. At first, Ethan would say, “Tiff’s just young and a bit clueless, honey. Be patient.” When I questioned him more, his patience wore thin. “Sarah, Tiff and I are just friends. Like brother and sister. You’re overthinking things.” “Just friends?” I’d pressed, desperate. He’d scowled. “Your mind is so dirty.” But what kind of “brother” pays half a million for his “sister’s” song and ends up in intimate photos with her?