There were ten hours left until my wedding when my fiancé placed an ultrasound photograph on our coffee table and said, “Brooke is pregnant.”

For three full seconds, I thought he was telling me someone else’s disaster.

Then Evan Mercer looked at the floor and added, “The baby is mine.”

My wedding dress was hanging six feet behind him.

That is the detail I remember most.

Not the way my heart seemed to stop. Not the ringing in my ears. Not even the ultrasound picture resting between two champagne glasses we had planned to use for a private toast before leaving for the venue in the morning.

I remember the dress.

Ivory silk. Hand-beaded sleeves. A narrow waist my mother had cried over during the final fitting.

It hung from the curtain rod in my Manhattan apartment, glowing in the city lights like the ghost of a woman who still believed she was getting married.

I stared at Evan.

“Say it again.”

His jaw tightened.

“Claire—”

“Say it again.”

He rubbed both hands over his face. He had always done that when he was anxious. Four years together had taught me his smallest habits.

“Brooke is eight weeks pregnant.”

“That wasn’t the second sentence.”

He finally looked at me.

His eyes were red.

“The baby is mine.”

Something inside me became very quiet.

Brooke Halley had worked as my executive assistant for nineteen months.

She knew my coffee order, my travel schedule, the codes to my garment storage room, the names of our biggest retail buyers, and the fact that I hated cilantro.

She had helped my mother organize my bridal shower.

She had held my veil during the final fitting three days earlier.

She had stood behind me in the mirror, smiling brightly, and said, “Evan is going to lose his mind when he sees you.”

Apparently, he had already lost it.

Just not over me.

I reached for the ultrasound but stopped before touching it.

“When?”

Evan swallowed.

“Claire, please.”

“When did you start sleeping with her?”

He moved toward me.

I raised one hand.

“Stay there.”

He stopped.

I had never spoken to him that way before.

Neither of us missed that fact.

“After my birthday,” he said.

His birthday had been nine weeks earlier.

I had been in Boston meeting with buyers for my clothing company. I had felt terrible about missing dinner with him, so I had asked Brooke to make sure the restaurant had his favorite chocolate cake.

She had texted me photographs of the table.

Candles.

Cake.

A bottle of bourbon.

I had Venmoed her the money.

My stomach turned.

“She brought you the cake?”

He closed his eyes.

“Yes.”

“And then?”

“I drank too much.”

I laughed once.

It sounded ugly.

“So you accidentally fell into bed with my assistant?”

“Claire.”

“Were you drunk the second time?”

Silence.

“The third?”

His face collapsed.

That was my answer.

I leaned against the arm of the couch because I suddenly did not trust my knees.

For months I had blamed myself for working too much.

My company, Whitmore House, had finally become profitable after three brutal years of debt, rejection, and sixteen-hour days. We had landed regional department store distribution. We were preparing a fall launch that could either double our business or bury us.

Evan had complained that I was never home.

He had said he understood.

He had said he was proud of me.

Apparently, both things could be true until someone prettier and more available carried him a birthday cake.

“How many times?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I didn’t count.”

“Of course not.”

“Claire, I know how this sounds.”

I looked directly at him.

“No. I don’t think you do.”

He took another step.

“Please let me explain.”

“You’ve had two months to explain.”

“I was going to end it.”

“When?”

His mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

I nodded slowly.

“Right.”

He glanced toward the ultrasound.

“She told me yesterday.”

“And you waited until tonight?”

“I needed to be sure.”

“Sure of what?”

“That she was really pregnant.”

My hand tightened around the couch fabric.

“And now you’re sure.”

“Yes.”

“And that’s why you’re here.”

He stared at me helplessly.

I understood before he said it.

“You’re canceling the wedding.”

His shoulders dropped.

“I can’t stand in front of three hundred people tomorrow and promise you everything while she’s carrying my child.”

For the first time that night, genuine anger cut through the shock.

I stood.

“How honorable.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make it sound like I’m trying to be some hero.”

“You are.”

“I’m trying to take responsibility.”

“For what part, Evan? The affair or the pregnancy?”

His face went white.

“The baby didn’t do anything wrong.”

My head snapped up.

I had thought nothing could hurt more than his confession.

I had been mistaken.

“The baby is innocent,” I said softly. “And what does that make me?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“You cheated on me repeatedly with a woman who works ten feet outside my office, then came here the night before our wedding and wrapped the whole thing in a speech about protecting an innocent child.”

“I’m not asking you to forgive me.”

“What are you asking me to do?”

He looked miserable.

“I don’t know.”

That answer told me more than all the others.

He expected me to supply the emotional labor for his betrayal.

He wanted me to scream so he could apologize.

Cry so he could comfort me.

Hit him so he could feel punished.