The late afternoon sun bled through the plantation shutters, casting long, accusing bars of light across the polished hardwood floor of the living room.

Dust motes danced lazily in the golden beams, highlighting the pristine, almost sterile, perfection of the space – plush cream sofa, abstract art on the walls, not a single cushion out of place. It was a stage set for a life that felt increasingly like a suffocating lie.

Chloe sat heavily on the deep, expensive couch, a belated 'gift' supposedly bought to ease the persistent ache in her lower back, a constant reminder of the five-month secret swelling beneath her maternity top.

Her fingers traced the smooth leather armrest, her thoughts a churning mess of resentment and tightly coiled fear. He should be here, she thought, the familiar bitterness rising. This is his fault too. All of it.