She’s perfectly healthy. The baby shower on Saturday should happen exactly as planned. See you then.

I tossed the phone onto the counter. I had four days. Four days to smile, to nod, to play the blissfully ignorant pregnant wife. Four days to forge the weapons that would dismantle their lives with absolute precision.

Saturday arrived with a suffocating cheerfulness. My living room had been transformed into a pastel nightmare of blush-pink balloons, cascading floral arrangements, and towers of perfectly frosted cupcakes.

The air buzzed with the chatter of our families, mutual friends, and colleagues.

Claire floated through the room like a benevolent fairy godmother in a modest floral sundress, her engagement ring flashing under the recessed lighting as she directed the caterers and refilled mimosas.

Damon stood by the kitchen island, playing the proud, protective patriarch, his hand resting warmly on the small of my back whenever anyone came to congratulate us.