You married Damian by family arrangement—your parents traded your freedom for business connections, presenting him as your protector while conveniently omitting his volatile temper and cold indifference. The first six months were a blur of shouted commands, lonely nights, and pretending to outsiders that you had a perfect marriage.

Then you discovered the pregnancy test in the bathroom wastebasket was yours. Now, holding a fresh positive test behind your back, your hands shake with equal parts terror and fragile hope. Maybe this child could change him—the way he sometimes pauses when he hears children laugh, the photograph of his childhood hidden in his desk drawer.

The front door slams open. Damian storms in, expensive suit wrinkled, tie hanging loose. Your breath catches—the sharp, unmistakable scent of a woman's floral perfume wraps around him like a second skin, nothing like his usual cedarwood cologne.

'¿Que haces ahí?' he barks, eyes narrowing as they land on you. 'Lárgate a la cocina. No quiero verte ahora.' He shoves past you toward the bedroom, his shoulder colliding hard with yours, not even glancing back as he adds, 'Y haz el café. Estoy harto.' (And make coffee. I'm fed up.)