The Harringtons' approval should have been a champagne moment. Instead, it felt like a stay of execution. Evelyn drove back to her apartment in a haze, the ghost of morning sickness still clinging to her throat, Cynthia Harrington’s knowing look burned onto the back of her eyelids. Your secret is safe with me. The words were a promise, but in the world of leaks and whispers, promises were vapor.
Her apartment was too quiet, too clean. It felt like a museum dedicated to a woman who no longer existed. She avoided the living room where Liam’s painting leaned, its vision of a future too bright, too demanding. She needed the mundane. The practical. She needed supplies.
The word echoed in her head, clinical and absurd. Supplies. For the condition.
She drove to a large, anonymous pharmacy on t
