Daniel’s eyes went flat and dead. He crossed the distance between us, grabbed my upper arm hard enough to bruise, and when I screamed and tried to wrench free, he shoved me with both hands.

My stiletto caught on the polished marble. I went backward, the world spinning in a blur of pastel and horrified gasps, and crashed into a mountain of silver balloons, wrapped presents, and a tiered display of cupcakes spelling WELCOME, LITTLE ONE.

The edge of a silver platter caught my lip on the way down, and a jolt of raw pain radiated through my lower back and stomach.

My hands flew to my belly.

“Daniel,” I gasped, the wind knocked out of me. “You hurt me.”

He adjusted his platinum cufflinks, not a hair out of place. “You embarrassed me, Mara. You brought this on yourself.”

Beside him, Celeste pouted, her glossed lips forming a mask of fake sympathy. She rubbed her own suspiciously flat stomach with theatrical tenderness.

“She really shouldn’t have yelled, Danny,” she cooed. “It’s bad for the baby’s stress levels.”

I remembered the way the whole ballroom had turned toward me before the fall — the condescending pity in the wives’ eyes, the horror on my few real friends’ faces, the hunger for a fresh scandal coming off the corporate crowd.

Under my trembling palms, my baby shifted weakly. A sharp cramp seized my abdomen. I closed my eyes and forced myself to breathe, willing my child to be safe.

Daniel’s father emerged from the crowd. Victor Ashford — billionaire founder of Ashford Global — stepped forward, silver hair perfectly coiffed, a shark’s smile on his lips.

“That’s quite enough drama for one afternoon, Mara,” Victor drawled, looking down at me like a stain on his imported rug. “We always knew you were too emotional, too fragile to really be part of this family.”