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But it doesn’t matter how long I look at this goddamn white-and-purple stick.

There’s no mistaking the prominent plus sign.

I collapse against the wall and slide to the floor, pulling my knees to my chest. Something between a laugh and a sob lodges in my throat, and I press my hand against my mouth.

I’ve wanted this for so damn long. I’ve imagined it so many times. The look on my husband’s face when I told him. The shock. The smile. The unbridled joy.

How he’d pick me up and spin me around.

How he’d place his hand on my stomach and cry.

How this little life growing inside of me would make our love grow, too.

It wasn’t supposed to happen after learning my husband’s been sleeping with his assistant.

It wasn’t supposed to happen just as I’m about to file for divorce.

It wasn’t supposed to happen when my life is a fucking mess.

Now all I can do is sit on the bathroom floor and try to find some small sliver of happiness that the one thing I’ve wanted for years has finally happened.

Just not in the way I ever imagined.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

WYNTER

“Wynter, sweetie. Are you okay?” Mom’s gentle voice reaches me through the fog, and I lift my head from my knees, surprised to see her standing in the bathroom doorway. I didn’t hear her car or the front door open.

I use my sleeve to wipe my face, trying to pretend everything’s fine. That my world’s not falling apart around me.

But it is.

And right now, I don’t want to pretend.

Right now, I just want my mom.

“No, Mom.” A sob breaks free, raw and ugly. “I’m not okay.”

“Oh, sweetie.”

She arranges herself on the floor beside me, pulling me into her arms. The familiar scent of her floral perfume surrounds me, and some of the tightness in my chest loosens.

“It’ll be okay,” she whispers, rubbing my back. “I promise.”

“Not this time.” I shake my head. “It won’t be okay this time.”

“What happened?” She meets my eyes. “Is it Wyatt?”

I draw in a deep breath. “I’m pregnant.”

I’ve thought about sharing this news with my mother so many times. But it wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be an exciting time. Mom was supposed to tell me how happy she was for me and assure me I’d make a great mom. We were supposed to talk about baby names. She was supposed to tell me everything I needed to know about morning sickness, swollen ankles, and midnight cravings.

It was supposed to be joyful. A new beginning.

Not something that feels like another bomb going off in the middle of my already fucked-up life.

“I see,” she responds calmly. “And the baby. Who’s the fa⁠—”