Chapter 1: The Anniversary I'll Never Forget
Three years. That was how long Emilia had waited for Julian Cross to love her the way she loved him.
She sat on the edge of their bed, the little test still warm from her hand, two pink lines staring back at her like a secret she wasn't ready to carry alone. Tonight was their anniversary. She'd planned everything: the candles, his favorite wine, the words she'd rehearsed in the mirror for a week straight. Julian, we're going to be parents. She'd practiced saying it three different ways, trying to find the version that would finally make his eyes soften the way they used to, before the silence between them became a permanent resident in their marriage.
She never got the chance to say any of them.
She heard his car in the driveway before she heard the second voice, soft, familiar, laughing at something he'd said. Her stomach dropped before her mind caught up. Julian never brought anyone home. In three years, she'd barely brought himself home before midnight.
She came down the stairs in her robe, phone in hand, message half typed to her sister. Julian stood in the foyer with his arm around a woman Emilia recognized immediately, even though four years had passed since she'd last seen her photo on his old phone, a photo he swore he'd forgotten to delete. Priscilla Vane. The ex-girlfriend he swore was ancient history. The one he said meant nothing.
You lying son of a b***h, Emilia thought, and the thought landed with more clarity than anything she'd felt in months.
"Emilia," he said, and for the first time in three years, he didn't sound guilty. He sounded inconvenienced, like she was a delivery he'd forgotten to sign for.
"I'm pregnant," Priscilla announced, before Emilia could say a single word. She touched her stomach like she was unveiling a trophy, chin lifted, eyes daring Emilia to react.
Look at her, Emilia thought, standing there like she'd won something. Stupid girl doesn't even know what she's won.
"Julian and I need to talk. Alone," she added.
The room tilted. Emilia gripped the banister so she wouldn't fall, her knuckles going white against the dark wood.
Julian didn't deny it. He didn't even look ashamed. He looked at her the way you look at furniture you're planning to replace, something you already stopped seeing months ago.
"You should go stay with your family for a while," he said, straightening his cuffs like this was a business matter that required tidying. "This is complicated."
A cold, sharp clarity cut through the shock. Emilia wasn't going to stand here and quietly pack a bag like a disgraced ghost in her own home. She let go of the banister, squared her shoulders, and walked right down the remaining steps until she was standing inches from them.
"Complicated?" she repeated, her voice steady, dangerously quiet. "Julian, you brought your pregnant mistress into my home. But let's get one thing straight: I am not going anywhere until you explain why you think you can disrespect me under my own roof. And as for leaving? I don't take orders from an interloper."
Priscilla’s smug grin flickered, insecurity flashing across her face. Julian scowled, stepping forward. "Emilia, don't make a scene. This isn't the place—"
"No, this is the exact place," she cut him off, staring straight into his eyes. "Because while you've been playing house with her, you forgot who holds the deed to this property, and you forgot that I'm pregnant too."
Silence dropped over the foyer like a blade.
Priscilla's smile cracked completely, just enough for Emilia to see the panic underneath the performance. Good, she thought. Be afraid. You should be.
Julian's face went the color of old paper. "That's not possible," he said quietly. "We haven't—"
"Three weeks ago," she said, holding his gaze. "You don't remember because you were drunk, and I was hoping it meant something. Fool that I am."
He looked at Priscilla. He looked at Emilia. And in that single, unbearable pause, stretching long enough for the grandfather clock in the hallway to strike the hour, Emilia understood something that would define the rest of her life: he was going to choose her anyway. Not because he loved her more. Because choosing Emilia meant admitting he'd wasted three years failing to love someone who tried so hard to be loved.
"I need time to figure this out," he said.
"There's nothing to figure out," Priscilla cut in quickly, too quickly, her hand tightening on his arm like she was afraid he'd slip out of her grip. "She's leaving anyway. Look at her."
Bitch, Emilia thought, and for once she let herself think it without flinching.
She didn't wait for either of them to figure anything out. She turned on her heel, marched back upstairs to grab her bag—which she had already packed just in case reality finally caught up to her marriage—and walked right past them out the door, into a cold October night.
As the door clicked shut behind her, final and quiet, Emilia didn't feel defeated. She felt a cold, burning fire. She wasn't running away; she was clearing the board.
She stood at the end of the driveway for a moment, letting the crisp air clear her head, when she noticed a black sedan parked across the street, engine idling, headlights off. She hadn't seen him arrive.
The driver rolled the window down an inch.
"Mrs. Cross," he said, and something about the way he said her married name made it sound like an accusation. "Your father sent me. He said you'd need a ride tonight."
Emilia stared at him, her instincts immediately flaring. Her father hadn't spoken to her in four years. "My father doesn't even know where I live. How would he know I'm out here right now?"
The driver simply reached over and pushed open the passenger door. "Your father has known you were pregnant for three weeks, Miss Hart," he said, meeting her eyes in the rear view mirror. "Ever since your husband tried to sell him the test results proving the baby isn't his."
