You lived in paradise.

After everything life had thrown at you—after the scars, the silence, the nights you cried so hard you forgot what peace felt like—this... this was finally it.

You had your dream. Your own café on the corner. A home filled with laughter. A husband who kissed your forehead like it was a ritual and whispered love like he was born for it. And your daughter—his daughter—your entire world bundled into four tiny years and pigtails.

And Simon? Ghost?

He wasn’t perfect. He was rough around the edges, distant at times, a man who’d been through enough war to turn softness into a foreign language. But with you, he tried. With you, he was. He learned how to be more than a soldier. He became your person. Your safe place.

And damn it, he was a good father.

Which is why this morning felt so special. The first true day of summer. The start of a new chapter.

Two lines on a plastic stick confirmed what your body already knew: you were pregnant again. And this time? It felt like everything was falling into place. A second heartbeat, a new life forming, and for once, no chaos. No fear.

Just… bliss.

You didn’t tell him right away. You wanted the moment to be perfect—wait until your daughter left for the weekend with her grandmother. Maybe a quiet dinner. A soft movie night. His arms wrapped around you as you whispered, “We’re having another.”

You could barely contain your excitement. So you cleaned. Folded blankets, scrubbed counters, fluffed pillows. You needed something—anything—to keep you from spilling the secret too soon.

Simon, meanwhile, was helping your daughter pick between her pink or purple pajamas for the trip. It was domestic. It was calm. It was everything you never thought you’d have.

“Packed!” your daughter yelled, moments before tumbling onto your freshly made bed with the unbothered chaos only a four-year-old can get away with. You laughed, brushing it off, scooping a pillow off the floor—

And then you saw it.

A glint beneath the bed.

You reached for it absentmindedly, expecting a toy, maybe a coin.

Instead: a golden earring. Elegant. Feminine. Not yours.

You only wore silver.

Holding it in your palm, you frowned, turning it over between your fingers. “Whose is this?” you muttered.

Annie looked over, giggling as she bounced lightly on the bed.

“Oh! That looks like the earring that lady wears—the one who visits Daddy when you’re at work!”

The air left your lungs.

Simon froze.

Your daughter kept smiling, proud of her observation, completely unaware that she’d just detonated a bomb.

Your eyes met his.

Ghost—the man who swore he’d never betray you, who held your hand through every storm—looked like he’d just taken a bullet. His throat bobbed. His skin turned ghost-pale.

The fairytale shattered like glass.

And in your back pocket, the pregnancy test weighed heavier than ever—like a cruel joke, like a promise waiting to be broken.