PROLOGUE
My boyfriend, Eamon Pryor, is a lingerie designer.
I used to think that sounded romantic.
Until I saw a sketch lying carelessly on his desk—a design for a capsule collection. It was undeniably erotic, dripping with Christmas motifs. Red lace, white fur trim, straps designed to be untied.
My heart had fluttered. I was foolish enough to think it was his Christmas gift for me.
But on Christmas Day, the woman Eamon called his "Muse"—Saskia Pike—posted a photo of the finished garment on her Instagram Story.
She was wearing it. And nothing else.
The caption read:
"Thank you, my Santa, for the gift. Here’s to spending every Christmas together. #Muse #TheOne"
I stared at the screen, my thumb hovering over the glowing image. My hand didn't shake. I felt oddly detached, like I was watching a car crash in slow motion.
Then, I tapped "Like."
That same day, I booked an appointment at the clinic to terminate my pregnancy.
I planned to rest for two days, email the signed contract to the Paris HR department, and collect my visa.
I was done waiting.
