My stomach dropped. That voice had kissed my forehead that morning. That voice had promised Valencia.
No. It couldn’t be.
Shaking, I stepped closer to the crack in the door and held my breath as I peered inside.
The scene hit like a sledgehammer.
Megan sat upright on the bed—healthy, glowing, not pale at all. She wore satin pajamas, not a hospital gown. And perched beside her, feeding her apple slices with tender patience, was Daniel.
My husband.
His eyes were soft—devoted in the exact way they had been when we were newlyweds.
“My wife is so spoiled,” Daniel murmured, wiping the corner of Megan’s mouth with his thumb.
My wife.
The hallway tilted. I had to brace myself against the wall to keep my knees from folding.
Then Megan’s voice—sweet, whining, intimate—floated out like poison.
“When are you going to tell Emily? I’m tired of hiding. And now I’m only a few weeks pregnant. Our child needs to be acknowledged.”
Pregnant.
Our child.
It felt like lightning split my chest.
Daniel set the plate down and clasped Megan’s hands, kissing her knuckles like she was royalty.