The news hit Margot Stone like a bolt of lightning, electrifying every nerve ending: she was pregnant. Five weeks. A miracle. This, she believed, was the sign, the undeniable proof that her contract marriage with Curtis Crosby was destined to become a true, loving union. Their baby would solidify their bond, transform their arrangement into a forever kind of love. Overjoyed, she clutched her pregnancy report, a sacred scroll, and hurried home, a smile beaming from ear to ear, oblivious to the ominous clouds gathering above.

The sky began to weep as she approached their imposing mansion, a fine drizzle turning into a steady downpour, drenching her to the bone. Inside, the warmth of the house, and the concerned fussing of Doris, their housekeeper, couldn't quell the rising chill in her heart. A pair of unfamiliar, well-polished leather shoes on the shoe cabinet caught her eye. He was back. A surge of excitement propelled her upstairs, the pregnancy report held tightly to her chest, eager to share her joyous secret. She paused outside his study, about to knock, when his voice, deep and resonant, pierced the silence, delivering a blow more chilling than the rain outside.