Larissa Seymour stared at the Amazon shopping cart on Travis's laptop screen, the bright white light illuminating the dark room. A bundle of pregnancy supplies. Not for her. A cold dread seeped into her bones, colder than the air-conditioned room. She clicked through his order history, each purchase a fresh wound: luxury cosmetics, skincare, and then, the limited-edition Chanel handbag—the very one Amber Fox, Travis's subordinate, had been flaunting.

The pieces clicked into place with a sickening thud. Her scalp tingled, a frantic pull on her hair that mirrored the tightness in her chest. She gasped, fighting for air. What if… what if it was all a coincidence?

Today was the last Friday of the month, their department's team gathering. She called Travis, her voice deliberately casual. “I don’t feel like cooking today.” He knew she had a cold, was taking the day off. “They’re quite rowdy, you know. Your headache might get worse,” he said, a note of reluctance in his voice that sealed her fears. Her heart sank, a heavy stone dragging her down.