Chapter 25
April
Ileave the office like I’m bleeding.
Not visibly. Not dramatically. No tears spilling down my face in the lobby, no sobbing into my hands. Just that internal rupture, like something inside me has been split open and now everything I thought I understood is leaking out sideways and flowing into the fucking gutter.
The elevator ride down feels longer than physics should allow. I keep my chin up. I keep my shoulders back. I keep my mouth neutral. But the moment the revolving doors spit me back onto the sidewalk, the air hits my face, and I realize I’m shaking.
I need to go somewhere so I can put all this together. Somewhere to stuff it until it stops screaming.
So I do the stupidest, most human thing I can think of.
I go shopping.
Not for a dress, not for shoes, not for anything that has to do with the woman I’m trying to pretend I am. I go because my body knows there’s a baby inside me, because my brain is shorting out, because if I hold something tiny and soft in my hands maybe it’ll make this feel real in a way that doesn’t hurt.
A boutique catches my eye—one of those places with pale wood floors and soft lighting and clothes so delicate they looklike they’re meant to be worn by babies who don’t move or cry or spit up. The window display is all cream and blush and fragile.
I push inside.
A bell chimes. Warmth envelops me. The smell of fabric and perfume and money sinks into my lungs. The sales associate smiles at me like I’m exactly the kind of customer she wants, until her eyes sharpen slightly, as if something about my face is familiar.
I keep moving before she can place it.
There are racks of tiny onesies, baby blankets folded and stacked, soft knitted booties the size of my thumb. I pick up a little neutral-colored cardigan and rub the fabric between my fingers, trying to imagine a tiny person wearing it, trying to imagine a future that doesn’t feel like a trap.
And then I hear them.
Four women near the back, clustered around a display of cashmere wraps. Perfect hair. Perfect makeup. Heavy coats draped over their arms like they’re decorative. They speak in low, amused tones—the kind of low that still carries, because they don’t actually believe anyone they’d consider relevant is listening.
“I’m telling you,” one says, voice dripping with bright cruelty, “that’s her.”
My stomach sinksagain.
Another leans in. “The one from the photos?”
“Mhm,” the first confirms, delighted. “The girl who’s dating Anthony Voss.”
I go still, cardigan frozen in my hand. My blood turns cold, then hot, then cold again.
“Please,” another woman scoffs. “As if he’s actually dating her. He trades women out like accessories.”
They laugh softly. A chorus of expensive amusement.
The first woman continues, “Did you see her? The photos were… generous.”
Someone makes a little sound of mock sympathy. “She’s definitely a bit thicker than she looked, isn’t she?”
My throat tightens. My hand instinctively slides to my stomach, protective, as if I can shield myself from words.
The women keep going, unbothered.
“He’ll come to his senses,” the first woman says dismissively, like she’s talking about the weather. “My friend slept with him a few years ago. He drops them like flies. He always does.”
They all murmur in agreement, satisfied by their own certainty.
I can’t breathe. It’s not the kind of panic attack from the street, not the hyperventilating kind. It’s something quieter and worse. A slow, sick collapse.
