Prologue
Late October, Montrose
The cramping had been getting worse for three days.
I shifted in the waiting room chair, pressing my hand against my lower abdomen as another wave of nausea rolled through me. Twenty years of coming to this office, and I’d never felt this anxious sitting here. But then again, I’d never felt this awful for this long either.
When Dr. Bedi finally called my name, I was ready for answers. What I wasn’t ready for was the concern etched on his face as I followed him down the hallway to his office.
I settled into the chair across from his desk, the same spot where we’d talked through my daughter Tia’s cancer diagnosisfifteen years ago. He closed the door behind us before moving to his chair.
“Your blood work came back,” he said, setting his tablet down on the desk.
“And?” I shifted in my chair. “Is it some kind of virus? Because I’ve felt like death for two and a half weeks, and I need it to stop.”
“Deanna.” He met my eyes. “Your hCG levels are elevated.”
“My what?”
“Human chorionic gonadotropin. It’s a hormone produced during pregnancy.”
I laughed. “That’s impossible.”
“The levels are quite high, actually. Higher than I’d expect for early pregnancy, which sometimes indicates—”
“No.” I stood up so fast the room tilted. “You’re reading someone else’s results. Run it again.”
“Deanna—”
“I can’t be pregnant. It’s literally impossible.”
“I can see why you’d think so.” He gestured to the chair. “But before we dismiss this, when was your last menstrual period?”
The question stopped me. When was my last period? I’d been so busy with work, comforting Tia through her heartbreak, and with trying to forget the summer...
When had I last...
The private beach. The motorboat cutting through crystal waters. Him navigating around rocky outcroppings to show me his secret cove. Racing into the sea together, the cool water a relief from the heat. Him untying my bikini in the shallows, laying me back on wet sand where the waves still lapped at our bodies.
My period had started right after. I remembered because it hadn’t stopped him from having sex with me again that night, after we’d returned to my villa.
That was August.
And I hadn’t had one since.
Two months. I’d missed two months of periods and hadn’t noticed.
“I’m forty-two years old. My twenty-two-year-old daughter is getting married in two months. I am not pregnant.”
Even as I said it, my hand moved to my stomach. To the bloat I’d blamed on PMS. The weight I’d blamed on hitting middle age. My body had been telling me for weeks, and I’d refused to listen.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
“I understand this is shocking,” Dr. Bedi said quietly. “But the hCG levels don’t lie. They’re elevated significantly—over 50,000 mIU/mL, which suggests you might be further along.”
The words bounced around in my head. “Your lab made a mistake.”
He moved around his desk, his demeanor shifting to understanding. “Let me perform an ultrasound. That will give us definitive answers.”
