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Chapter 2
Chapter 2:
So here I am, pregnant wife of the year, standing in my own living room like a guest who’s overstayed her welcome. Through the door of what was supposed to be my baby’s room, I can hear them laughing.
Laughing.
The sound is light and easy, the way people laugh when they’re comfortable with each other, when there’s history between them—inside jokes and shared memories and all the little intimacies that come from time spent together. It’s the kind of laugh Nathan used to share with me, back when I was still interesting enough to make him happy.
I should go in there. I should push open that door and remind that bandaged waif that Nathan Calloway is my husband, that this is my home, that she’s sleeping in a room I painted for my child. But I can’t. Because officially, they’re just friends. Because Nathan has told me—with that patient, slightly condescending tone he’s perfected lately—that he’s only worried about her “as a friend p>
And if I make a scene? If I let myself become the jealous, unreasonable wife? Then I’m no longer Vivian Ashford, the understanding partner, the cool girl who doesn’t nag, the woman who trusts her husband completely.
I’ve spent years building that identity. Funny how quickly it’s starting to feel like a cage.
My hand finds my stomach—still flat, still keeping its secret from the world. Outside the window, the sky is bruising into evening purple. I grab my phone and my wallet.
“I’m going out for groceries,” I announce to no one in particular, and slip out the door.
The fresh air hits me like a small mercy. For twenty minutes, I wander the aisles of the supermarket, picking up vegetables I may or may not cook, trying to remember what normal feels like. Nathan had wanted me to quit my job when the pregnancy started. “I’ll take care of you,” he’d said, and I’d resisted at first—I liked my work, liked having something that was mine. But the morning sickness won. The exhaustion won. And now I spend my days in an apartment that increasingly feels like someone else’s territory.
R𝗲𝒶𝗅 f𝑜𝓇m 𝒽𝒶𝓁𝑑 ⓐt gⲁ𝗅𝗇𝗈ν𝖊𝗅𝘀⧼𝖼𝖮𝖒
When I return, the spicy aroma hits me before I even open the door.
