Chapter 1 - The Echo of a Lie
The sterile white curtains of the hospital bay fluttered slightly as the air conditioning hummed overhead. I stared at the young physician, Dr. Alan Vance, whose name tag glinted under the harsh fluorescent lights. My heart was still hammering against my ribs, a chaotic drumbeat left over from the shock at the restaurant, the cold rain, and the dizzying collapse on the sidewalk.
"Why?" I repeated, my voice cracking. "What does my menstrual cycle have to do with fainting?"
Dr. Vance lowered his chart, his expression softening with a professional yet unsettling empathy. "Your blood work came back, Mrs. Mercer. Specifically, your human chorionic gonadotropin levels. You’re pregnant. Roughly five to six weeks along."
The world stopped.
Not slowed down—completely stopped. The hum of the AC vanished. The rhythmic beep of a monitor in the next bay faded into nothingness. Five to six weeks. That meant conception had happened right around the time Grant and I had taken that "reconciliation trip" to the cabin in Hocking Hills—a trip Grant had insisted on to heal the emotional scar left by the loss of our first son five years ago.
A sharp, metallic taste flooded my mouth.
*Grant.*
Grant, who had just served me divorce papers over a candlelit anniversary dinner. Grant, who had emptied our joint accounts. Grant, who had sent an ultrasound from a child supposedly dead five years ago.
And now, a new baby.
"Mrs. Mercer? Are you alright?" Dr. Vance asked, taking a step forward. "Did you not know?"
"No," I whispered, the word barely escaping my lips. My hands instinctively flew to my lower abdomen. A shield. A sanctuary. Panic, hot and suffocating, flared in my chest. If Grant found out about this pregnancy, what would he do? If he was capable of orchestrating a cold-blooded betrayal after a decade of marriage, what was he capable of doing to a child that could interfere with his clean break, his assets, his pristine public image?
"We need to run a few more tests," Dr. Vance said, pulling out a pen. "Given your history of a traumatic emergency C-section and subsequent complications—"
"No," I interrupted, my voice suddenly firm, laced with an adrenaline-fueled clarity. I swung my legs over the side of the examination table. "No more tests. I'm leaving."
"Mrs. Mercer, medically speaking—"
"I am discharging myself, Doctor."
Ten minutes later, I walked out of the sliding glass doors of the Cincinnati hospital into the crisp autumn air. Ethan Cole was leaning against the rusted fender of his Subaru, smoking a cigarette. When he saw me, he immediately flicked it into a nearby trash can and hurried over.
"You look like you just saw a ghost," Ethan said, scanning my pale face.
"Worse," I muttered, opening the passenger door and climbing in. Ethan slid into the driver's seat, started the engine, and didn't pull away immediately. He turned to look at me, the dashboard lights casting a warm amber glow over his tired, rugged features.
"You don't have to tell me anything," Ethan said quietly. "But you're shaking. Where to? Do you have family? Friends?"
"I don't have anyone, Ethan," I said, looking out the rain-streaked window at the shimmering city lights. "Ten years ago, I gave up my career, my friends, my entire life to be Mrs. Grant Mercer. And tonight, I found out my husband is a monster, my entire past is a lie, and..." I swallowed hard, tears finally spilling over my lashes. "...and I'm pregnant."
Ethan went completely still. The silence in the car stretched out, thick and heavy, broken only by the rhythmic swish of the wipers.
May you like
When Ethan finally spoke, his voice was dangerously steady. "Then we need to figure out what your husband is hiding. Because whatever it is, it's bigger than divorce papers."
***
