On our wedding day, another woman bet my groom wouldn't leave me at the altar. He proved her wrong. Liam dropped my hand right there on the altar steps. Turned to his groomsmen. Laughed. "Emily's soft. I'll sweet-talk her later. She'll come running back." His groomsmen erupted in catcalls. They called me a desperate gold digger. A girl who'd never have the spine to walk away. Chloe sauntered up the aisle in her four-inch Louboutins. She plucked the veil right off my head. Looped her arm through Liam's. Walked out of the chapel laughing. Every guest in the chapel stared at me. I didn't cry. I didn't move. I stood at the altar with the same composed expression I'd worn walking in. But only I knew the truth. I wasn't enduring anything. In that moment, I was carving him out of my life. One clean cut at a time. Liam glanced back over his shoulder. Almost approvingly. He left me with one last line. "That's the composure a future Fox wife should have. Go home and wait for me." I watched him walk away and almost laughed out loud. Composure? No. I was just done with him. Three years later. Liam Fox showed up at my boutique with nine black Maybachs and a pink diamond ring. "Cooled off yet?" He smiled like the last three years had never happened. "I'm here to keep my promise." I didn't even look at him. I cradled my belly and said flatly, "Excuse me. My husband is waiting for me at the hospital." "Cute. You strapped on a fake silicone bump for the drama?" Liam had one hand in his pocket. His gaze slid lazily across my stomach like he was watching a bad joke unfold. His voice carried that smug certainty I used to mistake for confidence. I met his eyes without flinching. "Mr. Fox. Move." The front of my boutique — Lambert & Co. on Madison — was sealed off by all nine of his blacked-out Maybachs. A drone hovered overhead trailing a banner across the morning sky. MARRY ME, EMILY. Pedestrians had started to gather. My staff stood pressed against the glass storefront. Phones were coming out. Whispers rippled around us. Liam didn't seem to register any of it. He stepped closer and held out a bouquet of red roses. "Three years, Emily. The tantrum's gone on long enough. Time to come home." He looked at me with what he thought was indulgent affection. "You know how I feel about women who throw fits. But for you—" he tilted his head "—I made an exception. I gave you three whole years." I looked at the roses in his hand. Three years ago, I'd been hooked up to an IV in an ER. Hives. Pollen reaction. He'd sent the exact same bouquet that day. Told me Chloe had picked them. Told me I should be grateful. I didn't reach for the flowers. I slid a hand over my stomach and took a small step back. "Liam. I'm not throwing a tantrum." I held his gaze. My voice was quiet. "I'm married. I'm five months pregnant." Liam laughed softly under his breath. Then he tossed the roses into the trash can at the curb like they were used napkins. "You'd really make up a lie like that just to get a rise out of me?" He pulled a Tiffany-blue velvet box from his inside pocket and snapped it open. A pink diamond. Six carats, easy. "We didn't get to finish three years ago. I'm making it up to you now." He didn't even kneel. He just held the box out. "Put it on. Tomorrow we'll pick out a dress. This time, I promise — I won't walk." He said it like he was handing me the keys to heaven. I looked at the diamond and felt nothing. That night three years ago, I'd peeled the dress off alone in my apartment. I'd taken a pair of scissors to the stained hem. Then I'd thrown both the scraps and the engagement ring into the fireplace and watched them burn down to ash. From that moment on, Liam Fox was dead to me. "I don't need it." I stepped around him toward the curb. Liam's brow finally creased. He reached for my wrist. I twisted away. His hand grabbed empty air. "Emily. Enough." His voice dropped, low and warning. "My patience has limits. Who is this performance for?" Right then his phone buzzed. A custom ringtone. A girl's voice — breathy, sweet, helpless. "Liam? Did you find Emily yet? I'm not feeling so good… I'm really dizzy…" The kind of helpless little tone that had always worked on him. Liam's expression softened instantly. He held the phone up and pressed the voice reply. "Take something for it, sweetheart. I'll bring her home soon." Then he turned back to me. Harder again. "Chloe's sick, and she's still worried about you. You need to stop being so hostile toward her." A note of reproach crept into his voice. "What happened three years ago was a joke. The Sinclairs spoiled her — she doesn't always think things through. You're the mature one, Em. Why hold a grudge against a girl like that?" Sinclair. The family his parents had spent decades trying to merge with. Chloe's father was Liam's father's biggest business partner. An alliance between their families had been the Foxes' lifelong dream. I had been Liam's college rebellion. The girl he'd picked up at a frat party because she wasn't on his mother's approved list. I watched him stand there — righteous, certain — and felt my stomach turn. It was the pregnancy. But the man in front of me made it worse. I drew in a slow breath and pushed the nausea down. "Liam. Do you not understand English?" I pointed to the Uber pickup zone. "My husband is waiting at the hospital. Move." Liam's face went cold. His eyes dropped to my stomach. "Emily. You're really not going to stop? You'd stoop this low just to force me to apologize?"
"Stoop this low?" I rolled the words around in my mouth. They almost made me laugh. "Think whatever you want." I was done arguing. An Uber pulled up at the curb. I went straight for it. I yanked the door open. Slid into the back seat. One hand cradling my belly. Liam slammed his palm against the door before I could close it. "Which hospital? I'll drive you." He stared down at me — every inch the entitled Fox heir. "I want to see for myself which broke loser you hired to play house with you." I stared at his hand on the door. "Let go." "Emily. Don't push it." His patience was gone. He yanked open the front passenger door and got in. I sighed and gave the driver the address of a private OB clinic in Midtown. The driver glanced from me to Liam. Hesitated. Liam tossed a handful of hundreds onto the dashboard. " Drive." The car merged into traffic. The silence was suffocating. Liam leaned back against the headrest, head tilted toward me. "You used to flinch at a flu shot." His gaze settled on my stomach, sharp and assessing. "And now you're walking around with a fake bump just to spite me?" "Take it off. Aren't you boiling in there?" I zipped my coat all the way up to my chin. Closed my eyes. Stopped answering him. Thirty minutes later, the car stopped at the hospital. I got out. Liam followed. The lobby was hushed — the kind of quiet that only money could buy. I walked straight to the self check-in kiosk and tapped my insurance card. Liam stood at my shoulder, eyes on the screen. Obstetrics – Follow-up. 20 weeks. A muscle twitched at the corner of his jaw. Then he composed himself. "Quite a commitment to the bit." A cold little laugh. I took my slip and walked toward the elevators. He stayed glued to my side. On the third floor, I found an empty seat in the waiting area. I'd barely settled in when the elevator chimed again. Chloe Sinclair stepped out in red-soled stilettos, cradling a bouquet of white roses against her camel cashmere coat. She spotted us instantly and made a beeline over. "Liam, Em." She thrust the bouquet at me, all wide-eyed innocence. "I heard you were pregnant. I just had to come and congratulate you." The pollen hit me like a slap. I jerked my head away and sneezed hard. Liam frowned at her. "She's allergic to pollen. Keep them away from her." Chloe bit her lower lip. Her eyes welled up on cue. "Oh — Em, I'm so sorry. I totally forgot." She pressed a hand to her chest, eyes wide. "I was just so excited for you." Then she dropped the bouquet on the empty chair beside her and slid right down next to Liam, settling in like she belonged there. "But Em…" Her gaze drifted theatrically across my belly. "Isn't this all a little fast, though?" She covered her mouth with her fingertips and giggled. "The baby's already this big. You didn't just marry the first guy who looked at you to get back at Liam, did you?" "And on such an important day — where is your husband, anyway? Did he leave you here all by yourself?" Liam didn't stop her. Didn't even glance her way. He was watching me. Waiting. Almost curious to see how I'd react. "Her husband's too busy to bother," he supplied for me, the sneer curling under the words. "What kind of paid actor takes a gig like this seriously?" I sat there listening to the two of them play off each other. Something cold and clear settled behind my ribs. This was the man I had loved for seven years. He could stand in a hospital waiting room and watch a woman humiliate his pregnant ex — and pile right on for sport. "Excuse me — is Mrs. Lockwood here?" A nurse appeared in the doorway of the exam suite, chart in hand. "That's me." I stood up. The nurse's eyes flicked from me to Liam, then to Chloe. "For your appointment today, I'll need your spouse to sign some consent forms. Which one of you is the husband?" Liam stepped forward without thinking. "I am." I turned. My voice cut between us — flat, final. " He's not."
The nurse froze mid-step. Her eyes flicked back and forth between me and Liam. Liam's outstretched hand — the one already reaching for the chart — hung in the air, suspended. His face darkened. "Emily. Don't do this." He lowered his voice. The warning underneath it was sharp. "This is a hospital. Not the place for one of your scenes." I didn't look at him. I kept my eyes on the nurse and offered her a polite, almost apologetic smile. "I'm sorry — I don't know these people. They followed me in. My husband is on his way. He'll be here any minute." The nurse nodded smoothly — the way nurses do when they've seen worse — and tucked the chart back under her arm. "Of course, Mrs. Lockwood. Please wait out here until he arrives. Some of these forms have to be signed by the spouse in person." She turned and disappeared back into the exam suite. Liam's hand fell slowly to his side. He slid it into his trouser pocket — that same casual, in-control gesture I'd watched him use in a hundred boardrooms. But his eyes had changed. There was something dangerous in them now. "Mrs. Lockwood. Strangers." He let out a short, brittle laugh. "Three years, and look at you, Em. You won't even let me sign as next of kin?" Chloe shot to her feet and clutched at his arm. Her white roses were forgotten on the seat behind her. "Liam, please. Don't get worked up." Then she turned to me. Right on cue, her eyes filled with tears. "Em — are you still upset about that silly little joke three years ago?" She sniffled. Voice quivering at exactly the right register. "I just made a bet with him. I was trying to make the reception more fun. How was I supposed to know you'd take it so personally and run off for three whole years?" She had reduced a man walking out on his bride at the altar to a silly little joke. She had reduced my breaking point to not being able to take a joke. I stared at her tear-streaked, doe-eyed face. I almost admired the sheer nerve of it. "Turning a wedding into a bet — that was a joke?" I turned to Liam. "Leaving me at the altar in front of my parents and two hundred guests — that was a joke?" I looked back at Chloe. "Stepping on my dress. Yanking the veil off my head. Putting it on yourself and laughing all the way out of the chapel. Was that a joke too?" Chloe shrank back and ducked behind Liam. Liam's brow tightened. He stepped between us — putting himself in front of her like a shield. "Enough." His voice was hard now. "Chloe grew up with everything handed to her. She doesn't always think before she acts. You're older than her, Em. Just once, can't you be the bigger person?" He looked at me with open disappointment. Like a parent at a child who'd let him down. "You take one small thing and turn it into a three-year grudge. You weren't always this petty." This petty. I held his gaze. For that wedding, I had stayed up half the nights of an entire month. Hand-stitching his initials — L.F. — into the inner cuff of his groom's shirt. By candlelight. Because I'd wanted something only the two of us would know about. I'd waited until two in the morning for him to come try on his tux. He'd never showed. Just a text. Too busy. I'd thought our wedding day was the start of everything. It turned out to be the glass of poison he handed me with a smile. "Liam." I said his name quietly. "Do you really believe that all you have to do is crook your finger, and I'll come crawling back to you on my hands and knees?" His eyes flickered. "That's not what I said." He shifted, recalibrating. "I just don't think you needed to marry some random man to make a point." He paused. Softened his voice — that low, coaxing tone he used on his investors when a deal started slipping. "This so-called husband of yours can't even make it to a prenatal appointment on time. You really think he knows you better than I do?" He even remembered. "You hate needles. Someone always has to talk you through a blood draw. Does he know that?" I looked at him — that arrogant, self-satisfied tenderness on his face, like he thought he was being deep. Something close to pity prickled along the inside of my chest. "He doesn't need to know." I rested a hand on my stomach. "Because he's never let me face any of this alone." The door to the exam suite opened again. The nurse stepped out with a slim stack of papers. "Mrs. Lockwood — these are from your previous intake. Could you confirm the information is correct?" She held them out to me. Liam was taller. He read over my shoulder in a single glance. His eyes snagged on the spouse signature line. And stayed there. Two words. Black ink. Confident, slanting strokes. Damien Lockwood.
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