He didn’t flinch. He kept typing, his jaw set. “Not tonight, Tessa.”

“I can’t choose the night,” I whispered, panic rising as a sharper contraction hit. Dark spots swam across my vision.

Grant stood. He walked to the hallway closet, took the hospital bag I’d packed weeks earlier, and carried it to the front door. He opened it, letting the icy rain whip into the foyer.

“You need to leave,” he said, his voice empty.

I stared at him, my mind unable to process it. “I’m carrying your child.”

“And you’ve used that as an excuse long enough. You contribute nothing. You’re dead weight. I want my life back.”

He stepped forward, grabbed my upper arm hard enough to bruise, shoved me onto the porch, and threw the bag at my feet. Before I could find my balance on the slick concrete, the heavy oak door slammed.

The deadbolt clicked with a sickening finality.

The rain soaked through my maternity clothes in seconds. Shaking, clutching my belly, I dragged myself to the front window. What I saw shattered whatever illusion of love I had left.

Grant wasn’t pacing. He wasn’t panicked. He stood at the kitchen counter, calmly pouring a glass of red wine. He picked up his phone, dialed, and a warm, genuine smile spread across his face — a smile I hadn’t seen in years.

A tearing agony ripped through my stomach. The preeclampsia was accelerating. My heart raced, and a high ringing filled my ears.

I pulled out my phone with numb fingers and dialed my neighbor, Mrs. Alvarez, a retired nurse. She was in the driveway in under three minutes, tires screeching on the wet asphalt.