My name is Linda Parker. My daughter Chloe had waited four painful years to become a mother. Two miscarriages

The sound of Spencer’s knuckles against the wood made Chloe jump so violently that the papers slipped from her fingers, scattering across the blue bath rug.

“Chloe?” The doorknob jiggled, rattling against the brass latch. “Open up. People are starting to ask where the guest of honor went. Your aunt wants to take photos before she leaves.”

I lunged forward, scooped up the papers, and shoved them deep into the bottom of the vanity cabinet beneath a stack of folded bath towels. Then I gripped Chloe’s shoulders. Her pupils were dilated, her skin clammy. She looked like she was on the verge of fainting.

“Listen to me,” I whispered, staring directly into her eyes. “Look at my face, Chloe. Look at your mother.”

She blinked, focusing on me through a haze of panic.

“You cannot break right now,” I whispered fiercely. “If he sees you like this, he will know you read it. He will know the trap is sprung, and when men like Spencer realize they are caught, they become unpredictable. We need time. We need to walk out of this house on our terms.”

Chloe swallowed, her throat bobbing. “Mom… he wanted to kill me. The miscarriages… what if my other pregnancies…”

A dark, sickening realization slammed into my gut. The two miscarriages over the past three years. Both had occurred late in the first trimester. Both had happened right after Spencer had taken over making her daily prenatal smoothies and morning teas.

*Dear God in heaven.*

“We will find out the truth about everything,” I promised, my voice steely. “Every single thing. But right now, you wash your face. You tell him your morning sickness hit you. You let me do the talking.”

Chloe took a deep, shuddering breath, turned on the cold water faucet, and splashed her face. She dried herself with a hand towel, smoothed down her yellow sundress, and nodded once.

I unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open.

Spencer stood in the hallway. His linen sleeves were rolled up, his watch glinting under the hallway light. His smile was fixed, but his eyes were like two chips of flint, scanning the bathroom behind me, checking the counter, the floor, the mirrors.

“There you are,” he said softly. His gaze dropped to Chloe. “You look pale, Chlo. What happened?”

“Nausea,” Chloe said, leaning against the doorframe. Her voice was remarkably steady, though I could see the slight tremor in her bottom lip. “The frosting was too sweet. It turned my stomach.”

Spencer didn’t buy it. He stepped forward, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered against the pulse point on her neck, as if he were deliberately measuring how fast her heart was racing.

“And the envelope?” Spencer asked, his voice silky smooth. He turned his eyes slowly toward me. “The bakery paperwork Linda was holding. Where did you put it, Linda?”

“It was just the itemized delivery receipt, Spencer,” I said, crossing my arms casually. “Nora overcharged for the custom fondant flowers. I put it on my dresser upstairs so I can call the bakery on Monday and ask for a refund. Why are you so obsessed with a bakery receipt?”

Spencer’s eyes bored into mine. For three agonizing seconds, neither of us blinked. He was testing my conviction, calculating whether I was bluffing.

“I just like keeping our finances organized,” Spencer said, dropping his hand from Chloe’s neck. “You know how particular I am.”

“Of course,” I said evenly. “Why don’t you go cut the rest of the cake for your friends? Chloe needs to sit in the living room under the air conditioner for a few minutes.”

Spencer lingered. “Actually, I think the heat is getting to her. Maybe we should just say our goodbyes and head home early. Chloe can rest in our own bed.”

*Do not go home with him.* Dr. Vance’s words echoed through my skull like a siren.

“No,” Chloe interjected quickly. “I… I want to stay for a bit, Spencer. My friends drove an hour to be here. I don't want to ruin the party.”

Spencer’s jaw tightened. A flash of irritation crossed his features, quickly smoothed away by his practiced charm. “All right. Half an hour. Then we’re leaving.”

He turned and walked down the hallway toward the backyard patio, his strides brisk and purposeful.

The moment he stepped outside, I pulled my phone from my apron pocket. “The woman who left the envelope—Dr. Vance. Nora said she came back alone to deliver it. There has to be a contact number on those papers.”

I rushed back into the bathroom, retrieved the pages from under the towels, and scanned the bottom of the handwritten note.

Scrawled in blue ballpoint pen along the bottom margin was a cell phone number and a brief sentence: