“Hannah. You’re early.” My husband’s voice was remarkably steady, considering the shattered glass at his feet and the fact that his hands were still lingering in the airspace where my best friend’s waist had just been.

Kayla spun around, her eyes wide, her hands instinctively flying to her own swollen belly. She was six months along to my eight. We had spent the last half-year joking that our babies would be best friends, just like us. We had bought matching onesies. We had spent hours sitting on my living room floor, eating pickles and complaining about swollen ankles.

“The caterer texted,” I said, my voice sounding hollow, as if it were coming from outside my own body. “They needed the side gate unlocked. I came in through the back.”

Ryan stepped over the sparkling shards of glass, closing the distance between us. He reached out to touch my arm, and every instinct I possessed screamed at me to pull away. I didn’t. I stood perfectly still, letting his hand rest on my skin.

“Kayla was just having a moment,” Ryan said, his tone entirely too soothing. It was the voice you use to calm a spooked horse. “Her baby’s father is being difficult again. She just needed a shoulder to cry on. Right, Kay?”

Kayla nodded frantically, reaching for a paper towel to wipe her dry eyes. “Yes. I’m so sorry, Hannah. I was just overwhelmed. I didn’t mean to make it weird.”

“It didn’t look like crying,” I said softly. “It looked like… something else.”

Ryan let out a heavy sigh, dropping his hand from my arm. He rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture of exasperation that I had seen a thousand times before. “Hannah, come on. You’re stressed about the shower, and you’re exhausted. You’re being way too hormonal right now. Don’t do this to Kayla. She’s going through enough without her best friend accusing her of something crazy.”

Crazy.

The word landed between us like a lead weight. I looked at Ryan—the man I had married three years ago, the man who had painted our nursery a soft lavender, the man who kissed my forehead every morning before work. And then I looked at Kayla, who was carefully avoiding my gaze as she swept up the broken glass.

I was carrying thirty-four weeks of a child inside me. My back ached, my lungs felt crowded, and my heart was suddenly hammering a frantic, terrifying rhythm against my ribs. But my mind? My mind had never been clearer.

“You’re right,” I forced myself to say. The lie tasted like copper in my mouth. “I’m sorry. I’m just tired.”

“It’s okay, sweetie,” Ryan smiled, the tension leaving his shoulders. He kissed my cheek. “Let’s go out front. People are going to start arriving.”

For the next three hours, I sat in a wicker chair adorned with pink ribbons, surrounded by a mountain of beautifully wrapped gifts, and lied to everyone I loved.

The baby shower was a masterclass in psychological torture. My mother-in-law, Eleanor, buzzed around the backyard, playing the role of the devoted grandmother-to-be. Eleanor was a woman composed of sharp angles and sharper words, a wealthy widow who had always looked at me as if I were a slightly defective piece of furniture her son had impulsively purchased. But today, she was all smiles, refilling mimosas and parading me around to her country club friends.

“Look at her,” Eleanor cooed to a woman in a pastel pantsuit. “She’s absolutely glowing. A little puffy in the face, but that’s to be expected.”

Through it all, Ryan played the attentive husband. He brought me plates of cucumber sandwiches. He rubbed my shoulders. And Kayla played the perfect best friend, organizing the gift-opening and writing down who bought what so I could send thank-you notes.

Watching them interact in the daylight, surrounded by thirty people, it was like looking at an optical illusion. If you shifted your perspective just slightly, you could see the invisible tether between them. The way he handed her a napkin before she even asked. The way her eyes tracked him across the lawn.

I felt sick.

By the time the last guest kissed my cheek and departed, my face ached from smiling. Eleanor insisted we leave the gifts in her living room while Ryan went to get the SUV. Kayla had already slipped upstairs to use the guest bathroom.

“I’ll go tell Kayla we’re leaving,” I murmured to Eleanor, pushing myself out of the wicker chair.

“Take your time, dear,” Eleanor said, sipping the last of her champagne. “You waddle when you rush.”

I walked up the grand, sweeping staircase of Eleanor’s estate. The house was quiet now, the chaotic energy of the shower replaced by a heavy, suffocating silence.

The door to the guest room was slightly ajar. I pushed it open to tell Kayla the car was ready.

She wasn’t there. The bathroom door was closed, the shower running. But her purse was sitting on the edge of the pristine white duvet, and next to it was her phone.

It was unlocked.

I am not the kind of woman who snoops. I have never checked Ryan’s emails, never looked at his text history, never felt the need to. But the image of his hands on her lower back burned in my mind.

I walked over to the bed. I picked up the phone.

The screen was open to her text messages. The contact name at the top was simply “R”.

I scrolled up.

R: She almost caught us. That was too close.Kayla: I panicked. I’m sorry. I just wanted to feel you.R: I know. I want you too. Not much longer now.Kayla: Did Eleanor transfer the money for the nursery furniture? I want it set up before my third trimester.R: Yes. It’s done. The new house is closed. We get the keys on the 14th.Kayla: I hate pretending, Ryan. I hate sitting here watching her open presents for the baby that we are going to raise.

The air vanished from the room.

My fingers felt numb, turning into blocks of ice as I forced myself to scroll further up, reading conversations that had taken place weeks, months ago.