Divorcing the Heiress? Bad Idea.

The afternoon light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of our living room, casting a warm glow across the cream-colored carpet.

I sat on the edge of the sofa, one hand resting protectively on my rounded belly, while Sarah, our nanny, knelt beside two strollers we'd been considering for the past hour.

"This one has better suspension," Sarah said, gesturing to the sleek navy model. "Perfect for the park trails."

I ran my fingers along the handle of the silver one, imagining myself pushing it down tree-lined paths, Evan walking beside me, our baby cooing contentedly. Six months pregnant, and I could already picture our future so clearly—weekend mornings at the farmer's market, the three of us, complete.

"But this one folds more compactly," I murmured, testing the mechanism. "Evan always says we should maximize trunk space."

The sound of the front door opening made my heart lift. I turned, a smile already forming on my lips as Evan stepped inside, his briefcase in hand, tie slightly loosened.

Finally.

My husband'd been working late all week, and I'd missed these quiet moments together.

"Evan!" I called out, my voice bright with genuine delight. "Perfect timing. Come help us choose."

He paused in the entryway, his expression unreadable as his gaze swept from me to the strollers, then back again.

Something flickered across his face—was it irritation? No, impossible. We never fought.

"We're deciding between these two," I continued, gesturing between them with an enthusiasm I hoped would be contagious. "I think the silver one is more practical, but the navy is so beautiful. What do you think? Which one do you see our baby in?"

Evan set his briefcase down with a deliberate slowness that made my stomach tighten. He didn't look at the strollers. He didn't look at Sarah. His eyes fixed on me with an intensity that felt wrong, felt cold.

I suddenly shivered.

"Lia," that was when he called my name, his voice flat and emotionless. "I want a divorce."

The words hung in the air like smoke, shapeless and surreal. I blinked, my smile frozen on my face, unable to process what I'd just heard. Behind me, I heard Sarah's sharp intake of breath.

"What?" The word came out barely above a whisper.

"I want a divorce," he repeated, each syllable measured and final.

My hand moved instinctively to my belly, as if to shield our baby from the incomprehensible.

This had to be a joke. A terrible, tasteless joke. We didn't fight. We didn't even argue. Just last week, he'd helped me paint the nursery a soft shade of yellow. Two weeks ago, we'd attended a dinner party at my sister Margaret's estate, and he'd held my hand the entire evening.

"I don't—" My voice cracked. I cleared my throat, forcing myself to stand, one hand braced against the armrest for support. The weight of my pregnancy made the movement awkward, vulnerable. "I don't understand. Is this... are you joking?"

But even as I asked, I knew. The set of his jaw, the coldness in his eyes—this was no joke.

Evan reached into his briefcase and pulled out a stack of papers, crisp and official-looking.

He held them out to me, and I stared at them as if they were a weapon.

"It's all here," he said. "The terms are fair. You can have your lawyer review it."

My lawyer. Review it. The clinical language made my head spin.

I took the papers with trembling hands, my eyes scanning the bold print at the top: PETITION FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE. The words blurred.

"Evan." I forced myself to meet his gaze, to keep my voice steady despite the tremor threatening to break through.

I would not cry.

I would not become hysterical.

That's what people expected of pregnant women, emotional and irrational, and I refused to give him that excuse. "If something's wrong, we can talk about it. If I've done something to upset you, tell me. We can work through it."

"There's nothing to work through."

"There has to be." My throat tightened, but I pushed past it. "People don't just—marriages don't just end like this. Not without a reason. Not without trying."

"No.” His voice sharpened with impatience, and for the first time in our marriage, I saw genuine irritation flash across his face. ”The problem isn't something you did, or you can do, Lia. The problem is something I never did."

I clutched the divorce papers tighter, my knuckles white. "What do you mean?"

"Lia. I don't love you. I never did."

The room tilted. Time slowed, each second stretching into eternity.

My stomach lurched violently, and I had to press a hand to it to stop the nausea. Those five words—*I never did*—ricocheted through my mind, each one landing like a physical blow.

"What?" I whispered.