CHAPTER 1

ROSALIE

I was staring at the live broadcast. At him.

Sheriff stood beneath a wall of cameras and flashing lights, one hand resting possessively on Marie's bare shoulder. His black suit was immaculate, his expression calm and confident. And then he took off his coat. He draped it around her. The crowd applauded. Marie smiled. Not the polite smile she gave strangers. The soft one.

My throat tightened.

Tonight was supposed to be our third anniversary. There was supposed to be dinner within the families. Instead, my husband was on national television, standing beside another woman as though she were the person he had promised to spend his life with.

The reporter's voice floated through the phone. "Mr. Sheriff, is it true that Miss Marie will be staying at the estate following tonight's charity gala?"

Sheriff smiled. "We're family."

Two words. They shouldn't have hurt as much as they did. But they did. Because I knew what family meant to Sheriff. Family was the people he protected. The people he chose. The people who belonged beside him. And for three years, I had been desperately trying to convince myself that I belonged on that list.

A sudden wave of nausea rolled through me. I covered my mouth. Then remembered. My stomach dropped. The pregnancy test. Upstairs. I had almost forgotten it. Almost.

I turned away from the television and hurried toward the stairs. My heels slipped once on the marble, and I grabbed the railing to steady myself. "Easy," I whispered, though there was no one there to hear me.

My hands were shaking when I reached the guest bathroom. The white stick was still sitting on the counter exactly where I had left it. Two pink lines. I stared at them. For several seconds, I couldn't breathe. Then I laughed. I pressed one hand against my stomach. "You're real." My voice cracked.

I looked at my reflection. Mascara had smudged beneath my eyes. My carefully styled hair was coming loose, and the smile I had forced onto my face earlier was completely gone.

I was pregnant. After three years of marriage. After three years of waiting. After three years of telling myself that maybe Sheriff was simply afraid of loving me. Maybe he would change. Maybe he would eventually see me. Now there was a child growing inside me. Our child.

And I already knew what the contract said. Article Four. Pregnancy constituted grounds for immediate dissolution of the marriage. No exceptions. No negotiations. And if our marriage ended under those circumstances, the trust Sheriff had established for my brother's treatment would be terminated. My brother needed that money. Without it, his treatment stopped.

My knees weakened. I sank onto the bathroom floor. For a moment, I simply sat there, staring at the test between my fingers.

I wanted to be happy. That was the part that hurt the most. Somewhere beneath the fear, beneath the humiliation, beneath the image of Sheriff putting his coat around Marie, there was still a tiny, fragile piece of happiness. I was going to be a mother. But I didn't know if I could afford to be one.

I closed my eyes. Three years. Three years of sleeping beside a man who barely touched me. Three years of watching him leave whenever Marie called. Three years of pretending not to notice the perfume on his shirts. Three years of swallowing questions because I was terrified of the answers.

My fingers drifted to my left wrist. The scar was still there. Thin. Jagged. Almost invisible beneath my watch. I remembered the night I got it. The accident. The overturned car. The terrified little boy trapped inside. The silver lotus I had pressed into his trembling hand before pulling him from the wreckage. He had cried against my shoulder. I had promised him he would be okay.

Years later, Sheriff still believed Marie had been the girl who saved him that night. I had never corrected him. At first, I thought the truth would come out eventually. Then I realized he loved the story more than he had ever loved the woman standing in front of him. So I stayed quiet.

Maybe that had been my mistake. Maybe loving someone meant nothing if you kept giving them opportunities to misunderstand you.

I wiped my face. Then I stood. My legs were still trembling, but I forced myself to look into the mirror. "Not tonight."

I slipped the pregnancy test into the drawer. Then I found the ultrasound photo I had received earlier that evening. The tiny image felt almost weightless between my fingers. I stared at it for a long moment before sliding it carefully into the inner pocket of my dress.

I would tell Sheriff. Not over the phone. Not through a letter. Not while cameras were watching. I would look him in the eyes and tell him that he was going to be a father. And then he could decide what kind of man he wanted to be.

I returned downstairs. The dinner was still waiting. The candles had burned low. The champagne bottle remained unopened. I sat at the table and waited.

Midnight came. 12:17. 12:47. 1:03. 1:17. Every time I heard a car outside, my heart jumped. Every time the sound disappeared, something inside me sank.