Chapter 1

My husband hates late. He doesn't wait for anyone. Not even his wife.

He made the rule the day we got married: Any fight over ten minutes, he walks out. No warning. No second chance.

Today is our anniversary. I'm eleven weeks pregnant. Morning sickness put me three minutes behind at the gate.

Three minutes.

I look up and Alaric is already telling the crew to close the door.

Willa is in my seat.

Fourth time this month.

First time, security held me two minutes. He flew Willa to the Maldives.

Second time, my checkup ran over by five. He took her to the spa I booked.

Third time, I couldn't stand from the nausea. Ninety seconds late. His car pulled off without me.

"You're always late," he says. "A seat's a seat. Someone has to use it."

I stand in the empty terminal. Something rips inside me.

My hands shake as I dial him.

Busy.

Again. Busy.

Third try, he picks up.

"Willa's airsick. I can't move. Call 911 yourself."

I look down. There's a puddle of red at my feet. Bright. Wrong.

I set the phone on the floor.

Alaric. Your schedule never had a minute for me.

So this time, I'm the one leaving you behind.

...

The paramedics get there fast. I can't finish a sentence.

They cut my pants off at the ankle. Soaked through. Onto the stretcher.

"Family?" the nurse asks, gripping my wrist. "How far along? Any conditions?"

"Eleven weeks. Husband's on a plane."

"Baby's father. Name. Can you reach him?"

I close my eyes. "Don't bother. He's busy."

The phone rings.

Alaric.

I stare at it two seconds. Answer.

"Iris. You called an ambulance?"

His voice is low. In the background, Willa, soft and shaky.

"Alaric, is Iris okay? Maybe we should turn around. I can handle it."

He doesn't cover the mic.

"She's good at turning nothing into a crisis. Lie down."

Then to me, "Why an ambulance? The airport has a clinic. We've taken off. We're not turning back."

My stomach cramps again. I bite down and wait it out.

"The doctor said I could lose the baby."

Two seconds of silence.

"Using the baby again? Really?"

"Iris. You were the one who was late. If I rearrange my life every time you slip up, everyone will think my time is a joke."

Before, I would've cried. Begged him to believe me. Told him the pain was real.

Now I just watch the nurse peel off another bloody pad.

I don't have the energy.

Willa's little voice floats through, "Ric, don't be mad. Pregnant girls get emotional. She probably just wants you to comfort her."

His voice goes colder.

"I don't have time for your jealous games."

"Keep the receipts. I'll cover the hospital when I'm back. Stop calling. Willa needs rest."

Click.

I check the time.

Exactly ten minutes.

The nurse looks at me. Opens her mouth. Closes it.

I flip the phone screen down. "Can you put it on silent?"

...

By the time the tests are done, it's dark.

The doctor slides the report across.

"Threatened miscarriage. Strict bed rest. No stress. No movement."

"Will the baby make it?"

"There's still a heartbeat. That's all I can promise. Can family come tonight?"

I shake my head.

Her jaw tightens. "You shouldn't be alone. If you bleed heavily, hit the call button right away."

The door opens.

Alaric's assistant walks in wheeling Alaric's suitcase.

He lifts out a folded shawl.

"Miss Grant left this at the airport. Mr. Vance is worried about the flight back being cold. He says you're close to the airport. Wash it and drop it at the dry cleaner's."

The doctor's face goes flat.

"She almost lost the baby an hour ago. And you brought her laundry?"

The assistant shifts. "Mr. Vance said Madam's good at taking care of these things. Miss Grant needs it before nine tomorrow. For the flight home."

His phone rings. Speaker.

Alaric.

"Delivered?"

"Yes, sir. But the doctor says she can't get out of bed."

"Then hire a courier. Iris, don't drag this out. Willa needs her things."

I hand the shawl back.

"Take it. I'm not her laundry service."

"What now?" he says, bored. "It's a shawl."

My hand goes to my stomach. It's still cramping. My voice comes out low.

"You're right. If it gets lost, it doesn't matter."

The assistant reaches for the shawl.

The suitcase tips.

A prenatal folder slides out onto the floor.

The name on the cover is Willa Grant.

Bottom line, printed clean:

Eight weeks pregnant.