His voice cracked. “Is she mine?”

That single question pulled me back eight years.

Chapter 3 — Eight Years Earlier

I had walked into our townhouse smiling so hard my cheeks hurt. Hidden in my coat pocket was an ultrasound photo — the tiny heartbeat of the baby we had prayed for after nearly a year of trying.

I had rehearsed the words the whole way home. You’re going to be a father.

Instead, the house was unnaturally silent. Ethan sat on the couch with his head lowered, while his mother, Eleanor Caldwell, stood behind him like a queen guarding her throne.

A manila envelope rested on the coffee table between them.