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Reaching the top shelf, I began checking inventory, pulling boxes forward and mentally noting what needed to be reordered. The repetitive task settled my thoughts.

As I stretched to grab a box from the top shelf, the ladder wobbled slightly, causing my heart to catch and skip a beat. I steadied myself, taking a deep breath and focusing on the task at hand.

“Just a little longer, little ones,” I whispered, rubbing my stomach. “Then everyone will know about you.”

This was a mistake. Stupid on every level. I knew it before I parked the car. I knew it when I crossed the street. I definitely knew it when I stood outside the studio door with my hand wrapped around the handle.

Ever since the wedding, my life had been a slow-motion train wreck. The truth about Chase came out, and then Lisa went public on her social media pages. There was nothing like being at the center of drama, and the entire world had a front-row seat. A full bucket of popcorn in hand and everything.

It seemed everyone had an opinion on what I’d done. Complete strangers attacked me in comments, calling me vile names. Several catty bitches said I deserved to die.

Die.

Let that sink in.

Friends stopped wanting to hang out. People I’d known for years suddenly acted like they didn’t know me at all. Over one stupid mistake. It wasn’t like I killed someone.

When the scandal hit the professional side of things, I had to dig deep. I’d kept things moving. Kept my head held high and threw myself into several new intensives.

But then I realized Pasha had blocked me.

Which wasn’t surprising per se, but he’d gone in and removed all traces of me from his life. At least on his socials. I had to create a second account to even see what he’d done.

All of our dance videos from the past several years were gone. That hurt. Massively. When I tried to reach out to talk to him, all I got was a disconnected number.

Yes. The man decided to get a whole ass new number so that I couldn’t contact him. There was no way to reach him now. I just wanted closure, but she was preventing me from getting it.

And that really was the core of the problem here. All of this was her fault. Stupid Kinsley—little sniveling bitch—Taylor.

God, I hated that woman. If not for her, I wouldn’t be in this position. Why couldn’t she have stayed dead? I couldn’t let it go. And now Kinsley’s best friend was pregnant with my man’s babies.

The moment my friend Nina called and told me she’d seen him and Isabella together at the clinic where she worked, I died on the inside. She would get fired, serve jail time and, possibly be fined if anyone found out that she’d given me a copy of Isabella’s chart.

Identical twin girls.

The knowledge that she was pregnant did more than hollow me out. The anger had settled in and was currently festering like a neglected wound.

It was all-consuming, so much so, I’d taken time off. Most days, I stayed in bed. But I couldn’t do that forever. The dance company was counting on me. I had to get my shit together.

That’s how I found myself here, right outside her studio.

My fingers curled so tightly around my purse strap that my knuckles burned. I barely noticed. Every breath worked its way in and out of my lungs, quick and shallow, my pulse pounding so hard it echoed in my ears.

I tried to steady it, but every time I pictured Pasha smiling at her…touching her…loving her…rage twisted inside me. I clenched my jaw until it ached.

Before I could lose my nerve, I opened the door and stepped inside. Silence greeted me. Where was the receptionist? Or the other artists, for that matter? There weren’t even any clients sitting around. There was just the faint hum of fluorescent lights.

A noise sounded somewhere in the back. I followed it. The plan was simple. I’d rehearsed it last night. I was going to start with Isabella. Give her a piece of my mind. Tell her what a shit person she was.

Then I’d pop next door and if I was lucky, I’d beat the shit out of the timid little mouse. Just for funsies.

With every step I took in Isabella’s direction, a band of tension tightened across my ribs. Then I saw her. She stood on a stepladder in the storage area, reaching toward the top shelf. For a moment, I simply stared.

One hand drifted to her stomach, and she rubbed it affectionately. She still hadn’t noticed me. She wobbled on the ladder and then steadied herself.

“Just a little longer, little ones. Then everyone gets to meet you.”

The words hit me like a slap. Little ones. She had a lot of fucking nerve. Was she talking about the very babies she’d been willing to throw away? The very babies I knew Pasha wanted?