The moment I pushed the door open, the sound drifting from the nursery made my blood ignite.
That room had been rebuilt brick by brick the instant Don Beckett learned I was expecting. No expense had ever been spared. Imported furniture. Hand-stitched bedding. Shelves lined with rare toys. Every detail had been chosen by his own hands. That space was meant for our child.
And now… he intended to hand it over to Delaney.
The fury hit me so hard it stole the air from my lungs. I rushed down the corridor and threw the nursery door wide open—only to find Delaney stretched comfortably inside the crib itself, as if she already owned it.
Before logic could catch up to my rage, I dragged her up by the arm. My hands were shaking with uncontrolled anger. But before a single word escaped me, Don Beckett seized my wrist and wrenched me backward.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he barked. “You walk in here acting unhinged like you’ve lost your mind.”
Then he noticed the tears streaking down my face. His grip faltered—just barely.
My voice cracked as I looked at the room behind her.
“So this is it?” I asked hoarsely. “You’re really giving her this nursery?”
Beckett’s brows knit together.
“She said she liked it,” he answered flatly. “It won’t kill you to let her stay here for a short while.”
“Do you even remember—”
“Enough, Evelyn!” he snapped harshly, cutting me off mid-sentence. “Every move you’ve made these past days has been nothing but trouble. If you keep behaving this way, I’ll be forced to reconsider this marriage altogether.”
His gaze hardened into pure ice.
“You wouldn’t want your child to come into the world without a father, would you?”
The threat was unmistakable.
He wasn’t warning me.
He was forcing me.
I looked at his face—the familiar angle he always turned away when he was finished crushing me—and felt years of memories unravel in an instant. The vows. The promises. The quiet confessions meant only for the dark. All of it burned away in a matter of months.
He once swore that this room would belong to our child forever.
He once promised that both the baby and I would be protected for life.
And yet here we stood.
I didn’t argue anymore.
I simply turned and walked out.
My legs felt hollow beneath me as my palm instinctively covered my belly, feeling the faint, living movement inside.
“It’s alright, sweetheart,” I whispered softly. “We don’t need that room anymore. I’ll build you a better one. Far away from here.”
Behind me, Don Beckett stood motionless. For a fleeting instant, that same shard of guilt from the hospital crossed his face again—sharp, fleeting, and quickly buried.
Then Delaney called his name from the nursery.
And just like that, he turned back to her.
---
Later that night, alone in the master bedroom, my phone buzzed.
One message.
Then another.
Then several more.
They were all voice recordings—from Delaney.
I played them one by one. And as Beckett’s gentle, indulgent tone filled the room, the truth settled into my bones with crushing clarity.
Everything he had ever shown me… had been rehearsal.
He had practiced tenderness on me.
He had practiced becoming a father on my body and my unborn child.
All of it was preparation—for Delaney’s baby.
Every nourishing soup he once urged me to drink.
Every expensive gift sent for my pregnancy.
Every soft-spoken piece of advice he shared about raising a child.
Practice.
All of it.
Even the nursery itself—the room I had believed was sacred—had been designed, not for my baby… but for hers.
I realized then that my child and I had never been more than training material. He didn’t want Delaney to suffer through his learning mistakes. So he used me instead.
I replayed the messages again. And again.
The ache inside my chest grew until it swelled into something unbearable—until a laugh tore out of my throat.
Not because it was funny.
But because the pain had nowhere left to go.
Everything I had cherished since the day I learned I was pregnant… every bit of pride, every fragile hope… it had all been a lie.
Beckett’s affection toward my child had never once matched the devotion he poured into Delaney and the life inside her.
My fingers crushed around my phone until my hand trembled. Breathing became difficult. The only thing I could do was whisper, again and again:
“It’s okay… it’s okay… it’s okay…”
Because soon—we would be free.
It would just be me and the baby.
And we would survive.
As if understanding, my baby kicked gently.
I wrapped both arms around my stomach and held tight.
I stayed that way for a long time—until the shaking stopped… and I could finally breathe again.
