Chapter One

## AMARA

“Happy anniversary, sister. Antonio is lucky to have you.”

Sasha’s voice was the first thing I heard that morning, bright and breezy as she stepped through the front door. I had asked her to come early to help with the anniversary preparations. Usually, Antonio and I were a synchronized team for these things, but this year, I was moving in slow motion. I was carrying a secret that made my bones feel heavy and my heart feel like it was constantly overflowing.

I smiled, pulling her into a hug. “Of course he is,” I laughed softly. “As am I.”

As we pulled apart, my hand drifted. It was a reflex now—a protective, subconscious slide of my palm against my lower stomach. I didn’t even realize I was doing it until I saw Sasha’s eyes track the movement.

“I love Antonio so much,” I murmured, more to myself than her, my gaze drifting toward the window.

The room went unnaturally quiet. I looked up to find Sasha staring at my hand, her expression unreadable.

“Wait—Amara,” she said, her voice dropping into a sharp, low register. “Is it what I think it is?”

I tried to play it cool, though my heart started a frantic thrumming against my ribs. “What do you think?”

She pointed at my waist, her eyes narrowing. “Well—either you’re mocking me for being single, or you’re pregnant and haven’t told your husband.”

“Shut up,” I snapped, but a giggle caught in my throat. I couldn’t hold the wall up any longer. My face betrayed me; a wide, terrifyingly happy smile broke through. “I’m pregnant.”

Sasha let out a sound that sat somewhere between a gasp and a sob. Her hands flew to her mouth, and her eyes welled up instantly—so fast it was as if she’d been holding those tears back for years. She grabbed my hands and squeezed so hard it almost hurt.

“Seriously?” she whispered. “Amara… I’m so happy for you.”

I pulled her into a tight hug. She buried her face in my shoulder, her hands trembling against the back of my head like I was something fragile, something precious. I felt her take a long, shaky breath against my neck.

When she pulled back, she wiped her cheeks quickly and looked away, a strange flicker crossing her face—a shadow that vanished before I could name it.

"When are you going to tell him?" she asked, her curiosity piqued.

"Tonight."

"Oh," she breathed, a small smile returning. "That is so lovely."

“Let’s get to the decorations then,” she said, clapping her hands to break the tension. “This evening is going to be massive.”

---

Midway through the morning, Antonio joined us. He looked at the half-strung banners and the boxes of candles and let out a long sigh—the look of a man who realized he was no longer in charge of his own house.

“Sasha—sorry for dragging you into this. I told her I could handle the heavy lifting,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.

Sasha laughed.

“But she is adamant,” they said, their voices lining up in perfect, haunting unison.

I laughed, missing the weight of the moment. “Yes, I am,” I said, walking into Antonio’s space. He leaned down and kissed me, tasting like the morning coffee he always made after his shower. His hand settled on my waist—familiar, warm, and steady.

By afternoon, the sun was high and the heat was beginning to make my lower back ache—that dull, persistent throb that had become my constant companion. I moved carefully, adjusting the white linen tablecloth, while Antonio worked a few feet away, untangling fairy lights.

“I am famished,” Sasha announced, stretching her arms over her head. “I skipped breakfast.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said, reaching for my phone. “Let me order something.”

“No, no takeout. I want something real,” Sasha said, already peeling off her work gloves. “I’ll go inside and whip something up.”

She touched my arm as she passed—a small, affectionate squeeze—and disappeared into the house. Antonio followed a few minutes later, realizing he’d forgotten the main outdoor lights in the garage.

I stayed behind, humming to myself, straightening the silverware. Five minutes passed. Ten.

The silence from the house started to feel heavy. Not peaceful, but *thick*.

“What is taking them so long?” I muttered. I wiped my hands on my apron and walked toward the back door.

---

The kitchen was the first thing I hit. It was empty.

On the stove, a pot was rattling violently. The heat was turned up to a roar, and the smell of scorching onions filled the air. Sasha’s chopping board sat on the counter, a half-cut onion and a knife abandoned right in the middle of a task.

“Sasha?” I called. No answer. “Antonio?”

The house felt hollow. My heart began to do a slow, rhythmic thud against my ribs. I pressed a hand to my stomach, an instinctual move to protect the life inside me from the sudden, cold dread filling the hallway.

I walked toward our bedroom. The door was slightly ajar. I had oiled the hinges myself last week; it swung open without a single sound.

The afternoon light hit the bed in long, golden strips. And there, in the bed we had chosen together, in the room that was supposed to be our sanctuary, were my husband and my sister.

The silence in the bedroom wasn’t empty; it was heavy, like a physical weight pressing the oxygen out of the room. It was the loudest thing I had ever heard—the sound of my entire life shattering into a million jagged pieces.

“Amara—” Sasha scrambled up, clutching the sheet to her chest.

“Don’t.” My voice was so calm it terrified me. It was the voice of someone who had already died.

I turned and walked out. I couldn't breathe the same air they were using.

---

“Amara, wait! Please—it’s not what it looks like!” Antonio was stumbling behind me, his voice pathetic and frantic as he tried to pull on his clothes.

I stopped at the top of the stairs and turned. I looked at him—really looked at him—and felt a wave of nausea so strong I thought I would collapse.

“Not what it looks like?” I repeated. My voice was steady, hard as flint. “All those hours you spent ‘talking’ to her. All that time I thought you were just being a good brother-in-law. I should have known.”

“Amara, listen to me—” He reached for my arm, his face a mask of sweating, desperate guilt.

“Get out of my way,” I whispered, my voice vibrating with a sudden, sharp fury. “You disgust me. Get the divorce papers ready. We are done.”

I turned to head down the stairs. I needed to get away. I needed to protect my baby from the very sight of him.

Then, I felt it.

A hand, flat and hard, slammed into the center of my back. A sharp, violent shove.

“No!”

The word was a strangled cry. Time fractured. In that lurching, sickening second where my feet left the floor, I didn't think about the affair. I didn't think about the betrayal.

I twisted my body in mid-air, a primal, animal instinct taking over. I wrapped my arms around my stomach, curling into a ball, trying to take the impact on my shoulders, my back—anything but the life inside me.

*The baby. Please, the baby.*

Then the first step hit my spine. Then another. The world became a kaleidoscope of white-hot pain and tumbling shadows. My head cracked against the landing, and the golden afternoon light smeared into a long, blurred streak.

The last thing I felt was the cold floor against my cheek and a terrifying, silent prayer.

Then, everything went dark.