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"Mom! Andrew! You made it!"

Andrew lifts the gift bag out of reach when she immediately reaches for it.

"Not until after cake, birthday girl."

Kayla groans dramatically, and Lauren laughs.

I watch the three of them head toward the picnic table, feeling a quiet sense of gratitude. Kayla has a mother who loves her, a stepfather who adores her, and a father who would move mountains to make her smile. And somehow, I've become part of that family too.

When it's time to sing, Kayla stands at the head of the picnic table, her face glowing with happiness, and I stand beside Brock with his arm around my waist. We sing together, and when Kayla blows out her candles, she looks at me and grins.

"Make a wish!" one of her friends shouts.

Kayla closes her eyes, her face scrunched in concentration, and then she blows out all eight candles in one breath. Everyone cheers, and Brock leans down to kiss the top of her head.

Later, after the guests have left and Kayla is in bed, Brock and I sit on the back porch, watching fireflies blink in the darkness.

"That was a good day," I say, leaning against his shoulder.

"It was," he agrees. "She's happy."

"So am I."

He turns to look at me, his hand coming up to cup my cheek. "I love you, Megan. I love the life we're building."

"I love you too."

He kisses me then, slow and deep, and when he pulls back, his eyes are warm with promise.

"Come to bed," he murmurs.

I take his hand and let him lead me inside, into the house that's ours, into the life we've chosen together. And as we climb the stairs, I think about how far we've come—from masked strangers to husband and wife, from secrecy to this open, joyful life.

I wouldn't change a single thing.

Chapter Twenty

MEGAN

The digital timer on my phone sits on the edge of the bathroom counter, the red numbers ticking down in relentless silence. I grip the edge of the vanity, staring at my reflection in the mirror—cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths. Downstairs, the dishwasher hums and the quiet murmur of the morning news drifts up the stairs from where Brock left it on before heading to the bakery downtown.

It's early September, about two months since Kayla's eighth birthday party, and roughly five months since we returned from our honeymoon.

A soft chime sounds. My heart kicks against my ribs.

I draw in a slow, steadying breath before picking up the slender white stick from the counter.

Two bold, unmistakable pink lines cut across the oval window. Beside it, on the digital test I took right after, a single word glows in crisp black letters: PREGNANT.

A breathless laugh slips past my lips.

Tears blur my vision, spilling over my eyelashes and running warm down my cheeks. I lower my hand to my lower stomach, resting my palm flat against the soft cotton of my leggings. Underneath my skin, something tiny and miraculous is taking root.

A baby. Brock's baby. Our baby.

Joy surges through me, sudden and overwhelming, making my knees tremble. I sit on the edge of the bath stool, laughing softly through the tears as I press the test against my chest.

Just months ago, I was sitting alone in my apartment, staring at a screen in the dark and convinced that desire was something I could only experience in secret. Now, I'm Brock's wife. We share a home, a life, and soon, a child.