The monitor beside my bed gave a sharp, frantic beep as my heart rate spiked. Another contraction seized my lower abdomen, radiating around my back like a band of heated iron.

Chelsea walked into the room carrying a large arrangement of pink and blue hydrangeas and a high-end bakery box.

She wore an oversized beige knit sweater, her blonde hair pulled back in an effortless, messy bun, her face painted with a look of devastated sympathy.

"Oh, Natalie!" she cried, rushing toward the bed. She set the flowers roughly on the bedside table and reached out to embrace me.

"Don't touch me," I said.

Chelsea froze mid-motion, her hands hovering in the air. She pulled back slowly, blinking with wide, wounded eyes. "Nat... what's wrong? I know you're in shock. Trent called me, he told me what happened. I swear to God, I tried to calm him down in the lobby, but he was completely unhinged—"

"How long have you been sleeping with him?" Mallory asked from the corner, her voice like cracking ice.

Chelsea turned, her face flushing crimson. "Excuse me? Mallory, how can you even say something like that? Natalie is my sister! I have done nothing but support this family!"

"You didn't answer the question," I said, leaning forward. Every stitch in my abdomen pulled, but I didn't care. "Did you sleep with him yet, Chelsea? Or were you waiting until he moved out of our house and into your guest room?"

Chelsea let out a dry, incredulous laugh. "Is this what Trent told you? He's deflecting! He had a psychotic break in the hallway because he couldn't handle the pressure of triplets, and now you're blaming *me*?"

"Open the laptop, Mal," I said.

Mallory opened the screen and turned it toward Chelsea.

On the screen was the transcript of her messages. Every poisoned whisper. Every manipulative seed planted over four months. And finally, the unsent email from three years ago declaring that I didn't deserve him.

Chelsea’s expression went utterly blank. The performative warmth drained out of her features, leaving behind something cold, sharp, and unrecognizable.

She didn't cry. She didn't stammer.

She slowly stood up straight, crossing her arms over her chest.

"You never appreciated him," Chelsea said, her voice dropping into a flat, venomous register. "You took him for granted every single day. Trent worked eighty hours a week so you could sit in that house and collect books for a living. And when you got pregnant, all you did was complain about your back and your feet while he worried himself sick about how he was going to feed five mouths."

"So you decided to help him by tearing his family apart?" Mallory snarled.

"I gave him clarity," Chelsea sneered. "He was drowning, and you were pulling him under. He came to my apartment two weeks ago, Natalie. Did he tell you that? He sat on my sofa and cried for two hours because he felt like a stranger in his own home."

My chest tightened so hard I could barely breathe. *Two weeks ago.* The night he told me he had an emergency commercial heating estimate in North Spokane.

"Did you sleep with him?" I asked again, my voice barely above a whisper.

Chelsea smiled—a tiny, cruel curve of her lips. "He wanted to. He leaned in right at my front door. But I stopped him. I told him, *'No, Trent. Not while you're still living with her. You do this the right way first.'*"

She tilted her head, looking at me with pity that felt like acid.

"He doesn't love you anymore, Natalie. Even if you forgive him for what happened in that hallway, he will never look at you without remembering that he doubted you. You broke his pride. A man never forgives a woman who watched him get dragged out by security."

"Get out," I said.

"I'm leaving," Chelsea said smoothly, picking up her leather purse. "Just remember, Nat... when you're waking up at three in the morning to feed three screaming babies all by yourself, you could have had help. But your ego wouldn't let you."

She turned toward the door.

Before she could touch the handle, the door swung open violently.

Trent stood in the entryway. His clothes were rumpled from sleeping in his truck, his eyes bloodshot, his beard stubbled with twenty-four hours of neglect.

Standing directly behind him was Dr. Ethan Ross and the Chief of Hospital Security.