Keila’s POV

The bed is still made.

Pristine. Untouched. The pillow on Kelly’s side looks the same as when he left yesterday—smooth and empty. Like he never existed here at all. No scent. No trace.

No return.

He heard me say it—I’m pregnant—and walked out like I’d announced a grocery list.

The silence in our penthouse is cruel. There are no footsteps. No music from his speakers. Just the drip of the bathroom tap and the clock ticking too loudly on the wall.

By midday, I can’t take it anymore.

I grab my keys and leave.

---

The Buchanan Family House

It’s funny how the place still manages to intimidate me. Years after the wedding, I still feel like a guest in Kelly’s world. The wrought iron gates, the sweeping driveway, the white mansion with its classic pillars—it’s all too clean. Too curated. A house built for legacy, not love.

The butler lets me in.

His mother is in the sunroom, sipping tea in a chair that looks like it hasn’t moved in decades. The late afternoon sun glows around her like a staged photo. She greets me with a tight, polite smile.

“Keila,” she says, dabbing her lips with a napkin. “What brings you here looking so... undone?”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “He left.”

She blinks.

“Yesterday. After I told him...”

I lower myself into a seat across from her. “I’m pregnant.”

That gets her attention.

The smile spreads into something more genuine. “Well, that is wonderful news.”

“Is it?” I say bitterly. “Because your son didn’t even blink. He left without saying a word. No check-up, no questions, not even a call.”

She leans forward, setting her cup down. “He just needs time.”

“Time?” I laugh, hollow. “We’ve been married for three years. He never touches me unless he’s drunk. And even then, he calls out someone else’s name.”

Her eyes harden. “Amelia.”

The name hangs in the air like smoke.

I nod slowly. “Even in her absence… I still live in her shadow.”

Mrs. Buchanan lifts her chin, voice clipped and calm. “You must understand—Amelia was... dear to him.”

“I saved him from humiliation,” I snap. “That day, when she didn’t show up. I walked down that aisle in a dress I didn’t pick, smiling in pictures that haunt me now. I gave up everything for him.”

“You gave him a second chance,” she says, smoothing a wrinkle in her skirt. “That counts.”

“Not to him,” I say, voice breaking. “He’s never once said thank you.”

Her gaze flickers. Then she leans in. “Keila, you’re carrying a Buchanan now. That changes things. You’ll see.”

I choke on a laugh. “No, you’ll see. I’m carrying proof. That’s all he ever wanted.”

She waves her hand. “I’ll send three girls over this evening. You won’t have to lift a finger.”

“I don’t want house help.”

“You’ll need it,” she insists. “A baby changes everything. And Kelly isn’t the kind of man who’ll be there for every bottle and diaper.”

“Neither are you,” I mutter under my breath.

She ignores it, already on her phone, probably texting the help.

I stand abruptly. “Please talk to him. Tell him to come home. Or at least act like he cares.”

“He’s always cared,” she says, softly now. “He just doesn’t know how to show it. Especially with... ghosts between you.”

Ghosts.

Amelia.

I walk out of the house like my chest is full of broken glass.

---

Traffic crawls. The sky is golden, but nothing about the moment feels warm. At a red light near the mall, I glance to the right—and freeze.

A woman is sprinting across the parking lot, chasing after an old car. She’s wearing a faded shirt and leggings, hair wild from the wind. But something in the curve of her shoulders, the panic in her run...

My stomach drops.

It looks like Amelia.

No. I shake my head. That’s impossible. Amelia’s been gone for three years. And if she were back, it wouldn’t be like this.

I turn up the radio. Drive away.

But the thought doesn’t leave me.

---

At home, I stare at my reflection in the full-length mirror. Designer blouse. Diamond ring. My life is perfection on paper: a beautiful home, a handsome husband, curated Instagram smiles, matching designer outfits at galas.

But inside this penthouse… I sleep alone. I eat alone. I ache alone.

And now—I lie alone.

The test was a gamble. A manipulated moment. I don’t know if I’m really pregnant yet. I needed him to believe it before he left for good. But now I’m stuck. If I don’t get pregnant fast… it all collapses.

I call Dr. Farah Levin.

“Keila!” she says warmly. “Been a while.”

“I need an appointment,” I say, voice tight. “IVF consult. As soon as possible.”

She pauses. “IVF? Wow. Okay. We can fit you in next week, but it’s a process—hormone therapy, egg retrieval—”

“Too long.”

“You okay?” she asks. “What’s the rush?”

I hang up before I can explain.

Instead, I scroll through my contacts until I find Ivan Carlisle.

Ivan. The only man who ever loved me without needing proof. The one I left behind the second Kelly showed interest again.

He picks up on the second ring.

“Keila,” he says, voice like velvet. “I was wondering when you'd remember I exist.”

“I need help.”

“Of course you do.”

“I need to get pregnant,” I whisper.

Silence.

Then: “IVF?”

“Whatever works. I just… I can’t wait months.”

“You don’t have months,” he says knowingly. “You have a lie to cover.”

I say nothing.

Ivan sighs. “There’s a faster way, you know.”

“I can’t.”

“You can,” he says. “And you might have to. If your husband can’t do the job… I still can.”

“Ivan...”

“I don’t know why you left me for that cold rich boy,” he says softly. “But I’m still better than him. And we both know it.”

I hate how true that sounds right now.

“Will you help me?” I whisper.

A pause. Then:

“Come over tonight. We’ll talk about it.”

I sit at the edge of the bed staring at the black screen of my phone. Kelly still hasn’t called. Not even a text.

The pregnancy test sits in the trash—negative.

I place a trembling hand over my abdomen, already imagining what could be. Not out of hope, but out of necessity.

Across the living room, a painting of our wedding hangs over the fireplace. In it, we look perfect. Like the kind of couple who has champagne for breakfast and agrees on baby names over candlelight.

But that painting is a lie.

This baby—real or not—is my last thread.

And I’m not sure if I’m ready to snap it.

I grab my coat. Purse. Keys.

As I open the door, I whisper to the empty hallway:

“God… please don’t hate me for this.”