My hands won’t stop shaking. I lock myself in the third-floor restroom, the pregnancy test lying face-up on the sink. Two lines. Clear as the deadline report I was supposed to finish an hour ago. Outside, heels click down the hall—someone could walk in any second. I flush the toilet for cover, splash water on my face, and force a smile. Just another Tuesday.

Then my phone buzzes. Philip: We need to talk. Conference Room B, now.

I know that tone. Something’s wrong. Or worse—someone knows. I smooth my skirt and head down the hall, every step heavier than the last. He’s waiting, jaw tight, eyes flickering with something unreadable. ‘They’re auditing personnel files,’ he says quietly. ‘Including emergency contacts.’

My stomach drops. I listed him. My husband.

This isn’t just about hiding anymore. It’s about surviving what comes next.