I push through the door into the waiting room.
And my whole body turns to ice.
Hudson is sitting in the corner. Legs crossed. Phone in hand. Looking up at me with that smile. "There she is," he says, standing. "My beautiful wife."
He crosses the room in a flash and wraps his arms around me. He pulls me against his chest and presses a kiss to the top of my head.
A public display. The doting husband who showed up for the scan.
"How did you—" I start.
His arms tighten. "You should have told me, Harper. I would have come with you."
His voice is warm. I stiffen in his arms. He feels it and pulls back with that concerned-husband expression and cups my face.
"Let me see," he says, and takes the scan picture from my hand before I can react.
He stares at it. And something crosses his face. The same look he gets in the boardroom when a number lands in his favor.
"You’ve made my day, sweetheart," he says. Loud enough for the room.
The receptionist beams. The woman with the toddler smiles at us. Everyone sees what they're supposed to see… a happy couple, a new baby, a beautiful moment.
Nobody sees my hands shaking. Nobody sees the way my throat has closed up. Nobody sees the scan picture being folded into his jacket pocket instead of mine, and that alone makes me feel sick.
"Let's go," he says, his hand on the small of my back.
I don't make a scene. I can't. Not here. Not in front of these people. So I walk. I let him lead me through the doors and into the parking lot, the sun blinding after the dim clinic.
His car is parked beside mine, and he opens the passenger door of his.
"Get in."
"My car is?—"
"Get in, Harper."
His voice hasn't changed. But his eyes have. The mask is off. The waiting room audience is gone. And what's underneath is the man I actually married. The cold, calculating, three steps ahead of me version of Hudson.
So, I get in.
He slides behind the wheel, pulls the scan picture from his jacket, and sets it on the dashboard, staring at it.
"How far along?"
"Twelve weeks."
"And it's his."
That isn’t a question.
"Yes," I say. "It's Ace's."
He nods and starts the engine. We drive in silence for ten minutes. Fifteen. He doesn't take the turn toward our house. He takes the freeway.
"Where are we going?"
"My parents'."
