The pregnancy test sat on the bathroom counter, two stark pink lines mocking the chaos in my heart. A baby. Our baby. I tucked the report deep into my purse, a secret I couldn't bear to share with Emmett, not yet. Not when his emotional radar was exclusively tuned to Keeley' s frequency.
He remained a phantom, busy with work, busier still with Keeley. I saw snippets of him on the news-the celebrated architect, the visionary behind new urban landscapes. He was always polished, articulate, projecting an image of calm control and unwavering success. But I knew the truth now. I knew there was another Emmett, a passionate, vulnerable man who only surfaced around Keeley, a man I was not allowed to see. That knowledge was a constant ache.
Then Augusta, Emmett' s mother, swept into my life like a perfectly coiffed tornado. She appeared at our door unannounced, a formidable woman with an aristocratic air. She observed my pale face and gaunt frame with a critical eye, then launched into her usual monologue about family legacy and the importance of heirs.
"Hazel, dear," she said, her voice dripping with a calculated concern that never quite reached her eyes. "You and Emmett have been married for two years now. It's time to start thinking about children. A family needs an heir, you know. It would settle Emmett down, too." She paused, her gaze shrewd. "He's always been a bit… prone to flights of fancy. A child would anchor him. Make him forget all those… bohemian distractions from his youth."
I managed a tight smile, unable to meet her gaze. She blamed Keeley for Emmett' s past "fancies," but she didn't grasp the depth of his continued emotional entanglement. She saw Keeley as a phase, a youthful rebellion. She had no idea that Keeley was still a living, breathing part of Emmett' s present, a constant, vibrant echo in our supposedly perfect marriage.
Later that evening, after Augusta departed, leaving behind a lingering scent of expensive perfume and unspoken expectations, Emmett called. "I won't be home for dinner, Hazel," he said, his voice clipped. "Another client meeting."
My stomach clenched. I knew the drill. Client meeting. Emergency project. Whatever excuse he conjured up, it usually meant Keeley. I hung up the phone and opened Instagram, my fingers trembling. It took only seconds to find it: a fan club photo, taken just an hour ago. Keeley, radiant, surrounded by her team, laughing over champagne flutes in an upscale restaurant. And there, beside her, his arm casually draped over the back of her chair, was Emmett. Not in a business suit for a client meeting, but in a relaxed, open-collared shirt. His face was alight with genuine joy, a smile wider than any I had seen him offer me in months. It was Keeley' s wrap party, a celebration of "Echoes of Summer."
And it was our wedding anniversary. He had forgotten. Again.
A wave of icy despair washed over me. I placed a hand over my still-flat stomach, a desolate ache in my core. Our child. The child whose father was celebrating with another woman on the very day that commemorated our union. The irony was a bitter pill.
The weeks that followed were a blur of growing morning sickness and emotional numbness. I gagged frequently, struggled to eat, and lost weight rapidly. My body, usually robust, felt fragile, worn thin by the physical demands of pregnancy and the crushing weight of betrayal.
Emmett, predictably, eventually noticed. He found me one morning, pale and huddled over the toilet, dry-heaving. "Hazel?" he asked, his voice laced with faint concern, but distant, as if I were a puzzle he vaguely remembered. "Are you feeling unwell? You look dreadful."
I pulled myself up, avoiding his gaze in the mirror. "Just a stomach bug," I lied, my voice raspy. "Probably a nasty case of gastroenteritis."
He nodded, a brief furrow in his brow. "You should rest." And that was it. No further questions, no offer to stay home, no lingering touch. He simply accepted my vague explanation and moved on.
The next day, he left for a "business trip." I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, he was flying to the city where Keeley' s film was having its next big premiere. He would be her rock, her confidant, her co-conspirator.
I went to my first prenatal appointment alone. The doctor, a kind older woman, confirmed the baby was healthy, thriving. "But your body is under a lot of stress, dear," she said gently. "You need to take it easy. Get plenty of rest, eat well." She didn't know the father of this healthy baby was currently far away, abandoning me for an emotional mistress.
I listened to her words, tears stinging my eyes. Here I was, protecting this fragile life, while its father was off playing savior to his "muse." In the waiting room, young couples laughed, fathers-to-be proudly cradling their partners' bumps, their hands intertwined. I watched them, a burning envy consuming me. I felt utterly, terrifyingly alone. More alone than I had ever been in my entire life.
