The sterile white of the pregnancy test stick felt like a cruel joke in Samantha Layne's trembling hand. Two lines. Two weeks late. A cold dread settled in her stomach, heavy and suffocating. "No way," she whispered, staring at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Her marriage to Adam was already a crumbling facade, a battlefield of silent treatments and thinly veiled contempt. A baby now? It was a laughable, terrifying thought.

Hours later, dinner lay cold on the table, a forgotten casualty of Adam’s absence. Fifty messages, twenty calls—all ignored. The crunch of tires on gravel outside sent a fresh wave of anxiety through her. He was home. The front door swung open, revealing Adam's frowning face, a face she barely recognized anymore. "Not now, Sam. Whatever it is you want to bitch about, not now," he snapped, his voice laced with the disdain that had become a bitter constant in their lives. The words cut deep, but she pushed past the pain. She had to tell him. She had to.