The envelope was sealed with wax—the kind Gabriel only used for legal documents. I almost didn’t open it. But something in the way he left it on the piano, next to my sheet music, felt like a challenge. Inside: a sonogram. Another woman’s name. A date from two weeks before his last overnight shift.\n\nMy hands didn’t shake. That surprised me. Three years of loving him like a prayer, and now, all I felt was cold clarity. I packed my grandmother’s sapphire ring into a velvet box and walked to his station.\n\nHe met me outside, helmet under his arm, soot still smudged on his jaw. ‘You don’t understand,’ he said, voice rough. ‘I can’t let you file.’\n\n‘You don’t get to decide that.’\n\nHe stepped closer, close enough I smelled smoke and cedar. ‘Then I won’t sign. Not unless you stay. Three months. Pretend we’re still us. For the baby. For the foundation.’\n\nI laughed, sharp and broken. ‘You want me to play wife while you prepare to be a father to someone else?’\n\nHis eyes burned. ‘I want you to give that child a chance. And I want… I need to explain everything. Just give me ninety days.’\n\nThe ultimatum hung between us, heavier than the silence we’d lived in for years. Walk away now, or step back into the fire.