Weston pressed a guilty kiss to my forehead. The memory of the office scene curdled my stomach; I slipped out of his arms without a word.
From the corner of my eye I caught the spread on the table and felt my nausea flare again. I forced a calm expression and said lightly, "I don't feel well. I want to rest."
"What's wrong? Are you upset?" His brows creased with concern, puzzled by my coldness.
"Don't be mad," he hurried on, eager to change the mood. "There's a surprise I prepared for you." He led me down the hall and pushed open the nursery door.
"Wife, look—I decorated the baby room just the way you like."
The walls were covered in warm, light-blue wallpaper.
A small crib stood in the center, surrounded by toys and framed photos of the three of us—a picture of what should've been a happy family.
"For our child?" I asked, my voice steady, my expression void of emotion as I looked at him.
"Of course," he replied quickly. "Wife, who else could it be for... besides our child?"
But as he spoke, a flicker of guilt flashed in his eyes.
A bitter smile tugged at my lips.
Blue... that had always been Patricia's favorite color.
Weston, you truly are a hypocrite.