The heavy paneled door stood ajar, open less than an inch — but that narrow sliver of shadow was enough. As Damon babbled something incoherent about his schedule, I subtly shifted my angle.
Through the crack, I saw a hand clutching the sleeve of my cream winter coat. I recognized the distinct, vintage-cut diamond Owen had placed on Claire’s finger.Neither of them realized I’d seen her.
Damon hastily sidestepped, deliberately putting his broad shoulders between me and the closet door. “How did the appointment go?” he asked, forcing a grotesque, trembling smile.
I stared at him — belt still undone, hair disheveled, the bedsheet dragged halfway off the mattress. Then I looked at the ultrasound in my hand. Our daughter had turned toward the monitor that morning.
For the first time, I’d been able to see the delicate slope of her nose. Damon had claimed he was utterly swamped with a client emergency and couldn’t possibly attend.
Now I understood exactly what emergency had kept him home.
“Is she healthy?” he asked, his voice strained.Behind the maternity coats, Claire remained perfectly still. I imagined her holding her breath, terrified of the ruin she’d invited into my home.
Bzzzt. Bzzzt.
The sound was muffled but unmistakable, coming from the darkness of the closet — a distinct, rhythmic vibration. I knew that pattern. Claire had customized it for Owen’s calls so she’d never miss him.
Damon’s eyes bugged out. He let out a loud, fake cough, aggressively clearing his throat and kicking the footboard to mask the noise. “Must be… construction outside,” he stammered, though our neighborhood was entirely silent.
