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She isn’t crying or shaking or even looking the slightest bit upset. If anything, she looks relieved—like this baby is the answer to every problem she’s ever had.

I hand the ultrasound back to Veronica, keeping my voice as steady as I can. “If it’s mine, I’ll be there for you and the baby. We’ll figure out co-parenting.” The words taste like ash. Being tied to Veronica for the next eighteen years feels like a death sentence.

My mind drifts to Blaire—the way she never once used Theo as a weapon. Even when she was exhausted and heartbroken, she still put our son first. She never punished me with custody threats or kept him from me just to make a point. Veronica, though… I can already see the years ahead: constant fights, manipulation, custody threats the second she doesn’t get her way. My kid turned into a bargaining chip every time she’s pissed off.

I force the next words out. “We’ll wait for the paternity test.”

She stiffens, instantly offended. “It’s your baby, Simon.”

“I’m not having this argument,” I say quietly, eyes fixed on the steering wheel. “We’re doing the test.”

She folds her arms and glares out the window like a sulking teenager, not a woman about to become a mother. I ignore the pout and put the truck in drive.

The whole ride home is one long, exhausting argument I don’t have the energy for. She wants to come back to my place. Wants to “talk.” Wants to “work things out.” Wants to wedge herself right back into a life I’m barely clawing my way out of.

“No, Veronica. No, you’re not coming over. No, this doesn’t mean we’re together.” I keep repeating it, each time firmer than the last. “No.”

By the time she slams the door and storms into her apartment, I feel like I’ve been through a small war. My jaw aches from clenching it. But I can’t let it show. I have a family to get back to, and if the suspicious tone in Blaire’s text earlier—when I gave her that vague excuse about being home late—is any indication, she’s already on edge.

I pull into the driveway and head inside. Blaire’s in full mom-mode, folding laundry on the couch while Theo builds a fortress out of pillows in the middle of the living room.

“You’re back,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “Everything okay?”

I nod and force a small smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “Yeah. Just bullshit with work.”

She studies me for a long second, eyes narrowing the way they always do when she knows I’m holding something back. “Do you want to—”

“I’m fine,” I cut in, voice firm. “Just a long day.”

She doesn’t buy it. Not for a second. But she lets it go. At least for now. “Okay,” she says softly, turning back to the laundry.

“I’m gonna go shower off,” I mutter, unable to look her in the eye. I head down the hall before she can press further.

The second the bathroom door clicks shut behind me, I crank the water as hot as it’ll go and practically rip my clothes off. Steam fills the room fast, but it doesn’t burn away the guilt like I hoped. Before I can even reach for the soap, I break.

I sink to the floor of the shower, back against the tile, fists pressed hard into my eyes like I can hold the whole world together if I just push hard enough. Everything I’ve wanted—everything I’ve been fighting to rebuild with Blaire—everything I’ve tried to fix—now clouded by a maybe-baby with the one woman I should’ve never seen more than one night.

And all I can think as I choke on the sob I’ve been holding back since the ultrasound is:

Please. Not again.

Please let this baby not be mine.

I can’t lose Blaire again.

Chapter twenty-eight

Blaire

“I’m serious. Something is wrong with Simon.”

Jamie gives me a skeptical look as she unpacks her lunch across from me at her desk.

At first I thought he was just exhausted. The party was a lot. The house was a disaster afterward. Theo spent the rest of the weekend ricocheting off furniture like a tiny tornado, and Simon and I collapsed into bed every night too tired to do more than mumble about the dishwasher.

But it’s Wednesday now, and he still isn’t himself.

“He’s distant,” I say. “He keeps zoning out. I’ll say something and have to repeat myself because he wasn’t listening. He checks his phone constantly. Last night he sat on the couch for almost an hour staring at the TV, and I don’t think he could’ve told you what was playing if I’d put money on it.”