The pregnancy test sits in my palm like a loaded gun. Two pink lines. Unmistakable. Impossible. I stare at it in the bathroom of our downtown loft — the place Damien chose, decorated, filled with sleek furniture I never wanted. Everything here is his. The marble countertops. The floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. Even the towels are monogrammed with his initials, not mine. Three years of marriage, and I've never felt like I lived here. I wrap the test in tissue and shove it to the bottom of my purse. My hands shake as I wash them, then grip the counter. In the mirror, my face looks the same. Brown eyes. Dark hair pulled back. The same woman who woke up this morning thinking she knew what her day would be. But everything just changed. I need to tell him. Tonight. We'll figure this out together, the way married people do. Maybe this is what we need — something real between us, something that isn't just the ghost of what we used to be before his first love ruined everything. I open the bathroom door. Damien stands in the hallway, phone in hand, his jaw tight. He's still in his suit from work, tie loosened. Tall, sharp-featured, the kind of handsome that photographs well. Three years ago, I thought I'd won the lottery. Now I know better. "We need to talk," he says. My stomach drops. He can't know. I just took the test five minutes ago. "Okay," I say carefully. He doesn't meet my eyes. "Natalie called." Of course she did. Natalie — the woman he loved before me, the one who left him at the altar six years ago and married someone else. The one whose name still makes him go quiet and distant. "She needs us to finalize the divorce," he says. "Immediately." I blink. "What?" "Her lawyer's filing the papers this week. She wants it done fast. Clean break." We're not divorced. We're married. Damien and I are married. Unless he means— "You and Natalie," I say slowly. "You're still legally married to her?" He finally looks at me. "It was never official. Just a technicality we never dealt with." A technicality. Three years of our marriage, and he's been legally married to someone else. The test in my purse feels like it's burning through the leather. "So what do you need from me?" I ask. "I need you to not make this difficult," he says. "I know how you get about her." How I get. Like I'm the unreasonable one for hating the woman whose wedding ring he probably still has somewhere. I should scream. Should throw something. Should demand answers. Instead, I smile. "Fine," I say. "Do whatever you need to do." He stares at me like I've just spoken a foreign language. "You're serious?" "Completely." For the first time in three years, I'm not going to fight him on Natalie. Because I finally have something he doesn't know about.