The Instagram post shows a man's bare chest, a surgical scar running diagonal across his sternum, and Jade's manicured hand resting just above it. I know that scar. I've traced it with my fingertips a hundred times, felt the raised tissue where the knife went in during his residency rotation in trauma surgery. Callum told me the story on our third date — a patient who coded during a routine procedure, the way he'd thrown himself across the table to manually compress the heart, the scalpel that caught him when the patient seized. The caption reads: "My favorite surgeon. Some things are worth the wait. 💕" Posted four hours ago. My phone slips from my hand onto the bridal boutique's plush carpet. The seamstress kneeling at my feet looks up, pins still between her lips. "Everything okay?" I can't answer. Can't breathe. The wedding dress suddenly feels like it's crushing my ribs. My best friend Mira picks up my phone, her expression shifting from concern to fury in the space of a heartbeat. "That absolute piece of—" "I need to get out of this dress." "Liv—" "Now." The seamstress helps me out of the gown with practiced efficiency, not asking questions. I'm grateful for that. I pull on my jeans and sweater with shaking hands, my mind racing through every moment of the past six months. Every late night at the hospital. Every surgery that ran long. Every time he came home smelling like expensive perfume that wasn't mine. Jade Winters. His ex-girlfriend from medical school. The one he said ended things when she couldn't handle the demands of his residency. The one he promised was ancient history. The one whose hand is currently resting on his bare chest. I'm in my car before I realize I'm moving. Mira's voice follows me into the parking lot, but I'm already pulling out onto the street, driving toward the apartment Callum and I share. The apartment where I moved half my things last month. The apartment where I've been planning our future. My phone won't stop buzzing. Mira. My mom. The florist confirming tomorrow's delivery. Tomorrow. Our wedding is in three days. The apartment building looms ahead, all glass and steel and the kind of expensive minimalism that screams successful surgeon. I park in my designated spot next to Callum's BMW and take the elevator to the fourteenth floor, my heart hammering against my ribs. The door to our apartment is unlocked. I push it open slowly, every nerve in my body screaming at me to turn around, to leave, to not see whatever I'm about to see. But I can't stop moving forward. The living room is empty. Callum's suit jacket is draped over the back of the couch. Two wine glasses sit on the coffee table, one still half-full. "Callum?" No answer. I move toward the bedroom, my footsteps silent on the hardwood floor. The door is cracked open. I can hear water running in the attached bathroom. I push the door open. The bed is unmade, sheets tangled. A woman's purse sits on the nightstand — designer, expensive, definitely not mine. A pair of heels I don't recognize lie discarded near the foot of the bed. The bathroom door opens. Jade Winters walks out wearing nothing but Callum's dress shirt. She stops when she sees me, her expression shifting from surprise to something that might be satisfaction. Her hair is damp, skin flushed from the shower. She's even more beautiful in person than in her Instagram photos — all long legs and perfect bone structure and the kind of effortless confidence that makes me feel like I'm disappearing. "Olivia," she says, like we're old friends running into each other at a coffee shop. "This is awkward." I can't speak. Can't move. Can't process what I'm seeing. She reaches into the pocket of Callum's shirt and pulls out a plastic stick. Sets it on the dresser between us. Two pink lines. "I was going to tell you myself," she says softly. "Before the wedding. It seemed like the decent thing to do." The positive pregnancy test sits there like a grenade with the pin pulled. Behind her, I hear the shower turn off. Footsteps. Callum appears in the bathroom doorway, towel wrapped around his waist, water still dripping from his hair. He sees me and goes completely still. "Liv—" "Don't." The word comes out stronger than I feel. I'm already backing toward the door, my vision blurring at the edges. "It's not what you think," he starts, but Jade laughs — actually laughs — and the sound cuts through whatever he was about to say. "Really, Cal? You're going with that?" I turn and run.